It seems fitting that it is raining today; it was how I started my time here. A drowned rat whom, merely four months ago, dragged her cart(s) of meagre possessions into a new place is now packing up (again), still wet and no less cold.
I’ve watched the trees cross over seasons; shed the remaining sun kissed memories onto the cold ground and wave their naked, knarled, fingers at the blustery days to follow. I’ve woken up to the sounds of chickadees, sparrows and, more recently, the seagulls as the waters opened up (like a gasping mouth) after a rash of mild days. I bathed, daily, in untouched light streaming from my northfacing windows; warmed my back through the southern windows. Watched bobbing light creep across my walls towards the ceiling as the day progressed. I slept soundly each night in near blackness and dead silence, save the creaking building and bumping and shifting of the roof in the wind. I’m not sure I’m ready to say goodbye just yet. Winter’s taking laboured breaths, heavy feet dragging behind her, scarring soft ground with trenches for new growth. Spring/sprung/sprang up when we weren’t looking. Aren’t you listening to the rain?