Remember when it used to rain
and we made clouds of our own,
when the dryads played quietly
upon the dampened dust beyond
the bare boughs of oak trees?
The earth came alive with birdsong,
hawks soared in circles crying
with delight and we watched—
once again believing in deities.
drycrikjournal 
lovely, i wish this were outside my window every morning
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Me too, Christy 🙂
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Who was that child that chanted, “Rain, rain, go away”?
Does he now feel guilty of the unknown power he wielded?
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I love that photo of the morning fog. We are headed west out through the Sand Hills (They are an ocean of grass on waves of sand.), through Chimney Rock and the SE corner of Wyoming to end up with family in the Denver area. That photo reminded me of fog in the foothills.
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