It's half-past the witching hour and it's starting to rain outside. I love my huge bay window and having the room on the end of the house. The chipped crystals I hung in the window are perfect not just in the sun, but also the moonlit rain.
It's so interesting to me how houses fall down when no one lives in them. Only the movement, warmth, and energy of a human keep them living, like organic things.
I remember the rain on this house. On this land. I remember the smell of the earth waking up. It smells like fairy tales and adventure and little elves. It smells like the great grey sky shot through with the barren branches of elms. It smells like wild roses and stubborn crocuses. It smells like an old wool coat and a clever north wind.
This sleepy gypsy wants to take a ride up the mountain, but there's no one to go with. No one to drive as she drinks in the stars or cracks the window to put her hand out in the rain. With a good song on low and the beams on high she could self-mythologize until it all made sense and she felt the peace creep over her of a tale beginning to unravel.
UP, up the mountain until the water drops freeze and we find ourselves in the center of a softly humming snow-globe. We'd go as far as we could, till we came to the rim of the world, then we'd look out over the trees and misty valleys. The snow would shine like rough glass and give off more light than Dame Luna in her sky. Then we'd get cold and have to come back down. Down to where the silent snow gives way to the rapping rain. Down to where the glittering path gives way to mud and bubbling puddles. Down to where the night stars give way to city lights, down the shining side road to my house, down, down under the covers and into bed!
Goodnight friends. :)
