Standing in the half-closed barn door,
looking out into the rain
that drums on sheets of corrugated metal,
a rhythmic distraction.
Cold penetrates layers wet with wintry humidity,
and I gaze out,
reluctant to leave this haven in search of a sopping beast,
the comfort of a familiar aroma –
soggy saddles,
raindrops on a hard packed dirt floor –
keeping me momentarily still to gaze in awe.
So I pause here,
dressed for battle:
blue waterproof, leather and cotton,
feeling dampened, but not in spirit,
as a gust of wind hurls fine misting drops at my face.
It’s vaguely refreshing.