Falling Barometer

Tonight is salted caramel gelato and thunderstorm warnings, stories about childhood bedrooms and our parents’ eyes and the way the light can change on a dime, obscuring what was just moments ago illuminated.

Wondering if the rain will come and knowing that either it will or it won’t and how much of our lives do we spend wondering about things that either will or won’t happen?

Tonight is a freezer door with an array of photos and magnets and cards, from “Yay! Gay!” to “May there always be an angel at your side” and “Dissent is Patriotic.”

Where is your dissent, you wonder. Either it will be there or it won’t be there, though unlike the approaching storm it may be more difficult to track.

What will your dissent look like on the radar? Flashes of postcard writing? Reading brilliant writing by people like Rebecca Solnit and Dan Rather and nodding your head, wringing your hands? Where are the front lines when we are at war with ourselves?

The birds are singing more loudly now, surely picking up on the falling barometer. Tonight is premature darkness and owl feathers and the rumble of near misses and the way memory moves through the trees, expectant, waiting for something to crack open.

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