Rain pelts the roof. I wake up at 3:06am, still buzzing from a few stolen snickers from my daughters’ halloween stash, and walk out the front door to sit on the porch in our thrifted rocking chair. 59 degrees and blanket wrapped. Across the street, the grassy hill is shimmering, wet blades lit by a gentle light. The towering pines sway in unison, and I sway with them. I think of the hummingbird in its carrotwood nest, the three-legged coyote that patrols the neighborhood. I think of love, scattered around the city. Damn these walls, sings Birdie. I think of the red brick house I grew up in back in Michigan, the wicker furniture on the front porch. Watching thunderstorms roll through. Running in the rain, dodging lightning.
But mostly I’m thinking about Wendell Berry. It’s been two months since he died and I’ve been revisiting his work…
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