Stirred Up By Rain
I fired up the mower although it was about to rain-- a chill late September afternoon, wild flowers re-seeding themselves in the blue smoke of the gas-oil mix. To be attached to things is illusion, yet I'm attached to things. Cold, clouds, wind, color--the sky is what the brush-cutter wants to cut, but again the sky is spared. One of two things can happen: either the noisy machine dissolves in the dusk and the dusk takes refuge in the steady rain, or the meadow wakes shorn of its flowers. Believing is different than understanding.
From The Snow Watcher, published by Ontario Review Press, 1998. Copyright © 1998 by Chase Twichell. All rights reserved. Used with permission.