Despite the Sun’s best efforts, grey wins the day, as storms thunderously roll in. There is nothing more beautiful than a Mayberry storm. Grey skies calm the soul as rain weighs heavy on pine branches. Big drops splash against my window panes whenever the wind kicks up. And the sound…oh, my God, the sound; It is the most soothing sound I’ve ever heard. There are no cars, or sirens, or rumblings of refineries, to drown out the sound of angel kisses as they splash against the thirsty ground.

When it rains, I can’t help but wonder where the critters go. I stare out into the woods, as far into them as they’ll allow, but the world seems to disappear into the treeline, surrendering itself to the mysteries that lie in wait beyond it. I rarely venture into the woods. The life inside them overwhelms me, and I recall stories of magical things and dancing spirits, told to me by old women in my family. Beautiful, though they may be, the woods are no place for me. Not now. I have no business there. I’m no hunter, nor am I a sorceress; I am a woman, alone and vulnerable to things beyond my reasoning.


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