It is still after the rainfall, a heavy one that stuck around throughout the early morning and well past noon. It left patterns in the grass and dirt, an exact footprint replication of the barn as sheets of sky-felled water cascaded down the troughs of its galvanized roof. A cold front lingers; the new, spring insects are motionless; and, snakes hide away dreaming of summer days forthcoming.
Oh, but for the redness of the Chinese maple tree! It's leaves are fiery and only amplified when tens of millions of droplets skate upon their waxy faces. Twelve hours of life-giving rainfall, yet fragments of earth remain untouched and dry, concealed by the maple's outstretched wings.
Footsteps are hushed in the wet leaves decaying. A break in the rain ceases all sound, save for the wooded acres, where the leaves of countless species continue to exchange droplets with their inferior. It is constant, unceasing, well after the rains become silent in the meadows, and it will continue until the dry winds from the south west parch them once again.
Nearest it all, with glossy pavements and wet fiery reds as the backdrop, she is there dancing. With hair down and feet bare, she is breathing words into the humid afternoon.
Bad love comes and goes; great love in guaranteed to all who understand that...
all
of
this
is
finite.
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