The dark clouds hang low on the horizon and the wind whips the tree branches back and forth. Gray skies and a light mist blanch the vibrant fall colors. The seasons turn and autumn heralds a change.
New house along the shores of the lake, a quiet haven nestled among the stalwart oaks, is now home. Devoid of long tedious commutes, paltry office politics the hours in the day stretch ahead. Files logged and the work for the day complete, the rain pelts the metal roof creating a quiet hum. Glancing down at the dozing dog at my feet, the solace sought in a long walk along the lake front is put to rest.
My fingers itch as I turn back to the keys. A myriad of thoughts race to be released with quick staccato keystrokes, keeping pace with the clinking of the tree branch on the window screen.
Fleeting thoughts flicker to the surface as elusive as the story that needs to unfold, where to begin, how to channel the flow into a cohesive text that reveals the soul. The water runs in rivulets, channeling into a gushing and tumbling stream, burrowing into the sandy soil and scarring the beginnings of a yard.
Searching the depths of the mind, scouring the memory banks, honing into the topic, sensing it slice through to revelation. The idea hangs on the precipice, tangible and elusive. The loud keening cry of the hawk swooping in the gray mist startles the squirrel. The loud clatter of acorns falling on the gun metal roof break the momentum and the fruition of the day is lost.