The rain is falling, gentle but steady.  Slow enough the birds are still singing and the herbs in my garden still have their faces raised.  There is a squirrel on a branch just a few feet from where I sit on my porch.  He has found a clump of leaves just over his head and he is still as a stone, crouched underneath his tail, which he uses as an umbrella. On occasion he flips it down to remove the accumulated water, but then it is right back up over his head.  A crow is laughing at the rooster, who crows in the distance.  The drips fall on my roof, inviting me to a lazy Sunday morning of reading, writing, and sleeping.  A chatter erupts to my right and it sounds as if two birds may be in battle over a worm.   The trees are full of leaves as spring moves into summer and the greens deepen, which causes all the light on my back porch to have a green tint to it.  It is a cool morning, and damp but still peaceful.

Here I wait on words to come.

There are none of any consequence.

Just the sounds of the rain, trees, and animals wooing me and calling me to listen.  All nature worships… even when I cannot seem to find that place…