It’s not as if I can count them all.
Each drop of rain striking hard, like a bullet against the first of the summer’s fallen leaves, and gravity ceding control to the already soaked ground just below.
Some leaves seem to have completely given up, pinned down by the weight of their own wetness. Others scatter freely, unable to resist the forces still cutting through them. As if caught up in some kind of mechanical afterlife, first pushing forward and then quickly circling back.
The teeming, rancid earth now readies itself for animation and annihilation, both, whichever first cares to overtake it. Flexibility and complaisance remaining, as they are, essential to an unstated recognition of life’s fullness and of its betrayals.
But soon enough the rain will stop and I’ll doubtless just forget why it any of it ever mattered.
Image Credit: Pixabay