I live on a bluff above a bay not far from the western edge of the US. The trees, mostly firs and cedars, grow tall and thin, like adolescent boys. Now that the rain has taken a break from its labors, the mist is settling, and large wingy sea birds scroll the air, while small plump-bellied birds gather at the feeder. I imagine that they are cheerful. I remind myself that I am happy here, at my desk, facing East, where on clearer days than this one, I see the ice top of Mount Baker in the distance.
This beloved spot often encounters great winds and stormy nights, and the power went out last night around 2:30 AM, although what woke me was a subtle shaking of the house, and the slam of something, likely a broken tree limb. I waited for a slice of morning light to get out of bed, to light the kerosene lamp, to search for a staticky station on the hand-crank radio. The temperature outdoors had pretty much equalized with the inside temperature, and I knew to take advantage of the hot water remaining in the tank to bask in a long shower.
As has always been the case thus far, power has returned, the baseboard is blowing hot air at my feet, and the cat has come out from his safety spot to greet the day. I have had the requisite cup of strong coffee. It is Sunday and I am haunted with the guilt of unfulfilled oaths, past and present. Still, I sit and watch the choppy waves on the bay, the waving tree tops; I listen to the music of moving air. I await the Sabbath bride, her fragrant spices commanding me to rest.