The Wait

I wait. I seem to be doing a lot of that. The calm before the storm, I think.

I am prepared for the promised deluge – the rain our dry land needs. I am prepared for the next story. But with both, it is not yet time. So, I wait.

Oh, there are little projects. A bucket of water here, a short story there. But I long to hear the pattering on the window pane and keyboard. Grey clouds and white screens call to me. Taunt me. My wait is near an end.

And when the storm does come, I will stand in it, drenched. At the end, I will be, like the land, refreshed.

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