It's Raining, It's Pouring

It's been raining since late last night.  When I woke up this morning, the trees were covered by a blanket of fog, and the ever green pines were dark inky green against the gray wispy blanket.

The world is wet, and cold.  I love it, and want to sit at the window and watch the wind bend the trees.  We can see the river, and across it lays another state.  The humidity is thick and pressing on me.

Native Portlanders walk without the covering and protection of an umbrella, and revel in the wetness.  I clutch the handle of mine, hoping the wind won't rip it from my grasp  Grungy denim and scrunchy boots, along with a beanie knit hat seem to be the uniform de jour and one looks out of place with a trench coat and mittens.

It is an alien place, for someone from the desert.  Although my corner of desert has seasons of spring, summer, fall, and winter.  The trees seem to hum a song of life, and the leaves, slowly turning mild colors of fall, glisten in the rain.

I take a deep breath and smell the crispness of a Northwest Autumn and feel blessed to be here.

And there is hope....

Usually I like my words to paint the picture, but today I'm feeling pretty low.  I thought this picture I took the other day kind of shows what I hope will be at the end of my day...

A Poetic Moment

Today, very early, around 6:55 am, I walked across the parking lot to work. My building lays situated near the duck pond at the center of campus, and so we often get visitors to the various lots and sidewalks. Today, as the sun was peaking up over the mountains, while there was still a calmness to campus before the insurgence of students, I encountered four Canadian geese, standing still as statues. Not a feather ruffled, or leg twitched. I stood in awe for a moment of such a sight, of nature juxtaposed against modernity of asphalt and I communed.

As I walked towards these creatures, it was not until I was about four feet away, that they even twitched. Then quite suddenly, one arched it back and spread it's wings as if in a display of avian grandeur. There was no honking, or even a sound and they waddled off towards the pond. I am not quite sure what brought them from their comfortable habitat, but it was a spectacular poetic moment, one that stayed with me all day. What are your poetic moments? How do they inspire you? Just a few questions to ponder!