on the road again

On the road again, fresh after the rain. Washed after the crisp, dry summer stretched into long weeks of dryness that showed brassy skies. Some crops put down deep roots and kept greening. Corn tassels darkened and ears fattened out. Burdock, goldenrod, and knapweed fed the bees in a sea of contrast. But elsewhere dust arose and bracken sighed. A nearby tree celebrated it’s two hundredth birthday, then breathing it’s last, collapsed over house, lawn, and road in a fifty foot circumference. Meanwhile, on a spiritual mountain, Elijah like, we found the lack of rain paralleled our wait. The wait having as many interwoven components as the miracle of corn that matures from tassel to ear. Waiting to be released, new sprung, like the desert blooms. Waiting to be commissioned as an oak grows deep while it flings acorns abroad. Waiting like bridled horses, ears pricked for the command.

The sound of rain. How precious after drought. Wet, clean, invigorating. And we’re on the road again, sprung from the bow, aimed straight. “This is your path, walk in it.” we hear. And though we go unknowing of where we’ll be each day, we have clear marching orders. Like the rows of corn singing in the rain;  like Elijah tucked up his robe and ran; as the drenched trees clap their hands laugh when their leaves are tickled, we go.