The new life is rumbling tonight.
From my cushy, exhausted evening I can't tell what it is. But I long for the plain, quiet of my old space at Rote Farm. The silence of a sleeping house, with a storm outside, witnessed by the fields, forest and garden.
The thunder there could only be thunder, not a helicopter or other machine. There was something so comforting about the plain expanse of that space, it cradled me to sleep while the wind whipped and the thunder threatened and the rain fell relentlessly.
After the numbness of the past month and a half, I just might be able to feel again.
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