Dearly Beloved, Grace and Peace to you.                    

Rain, this one drop falling just now between the branch and stone, falling with cloud-mingled memory of a line of Siberian lakes, memory of a thousand emigrations from swamp and steppe, of zephyrs, monsoons, chinooks and squalls— this drop is now distilled from all of that and simply falls, led to this spot, this splat on a stone, where it rests after all those glaciers and rivers, rests in this moment, and asks me: before you rush off to your next Patagonian slope will you fall, here, through this very air, and soak into this place, before you are swept away?


Weather report

Rain, somewhere, perhaps not near you, although what matters you yourself will have to see.

                    Deep Blessings, Pastor Steve

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