you throw a pebble in, then ripples… ripples, ripples. It’s been raining long enough. A wrinkled lake reflective of a distorted sky… The pebble will sink, the final ripple will touch the shore. Then, stillness. 
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It poured this morning. It seemed an exerted effort from the sky. It was a heavy fall and I loved it. The rain made a cloak and enveloped everything. 

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It was august last year when we entered the mountains. Wild horses drank from a little glistening stream, nodding their heads up and down, their tails swayed. Grass was bright green under the hot sun, though the tips of some trees were already yellowing. I like autumns, too, but what was the rush? Dad said when fall hits, all the mountains will be covered in an array of yellow, red, brown and gold… 

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Counting down to Saturday. Sabrina. Boston. And a break from this place, you know, this place.