La pluie omniprésente

I am wallowing in the apercus of September, drowsy in the clear blue of perspicacity, sober in the bosom of a low-cut, end of summer day exposing my own foibles. At last, I want to sing, the hills are alive with lecherous cries and summer has returned from the days of Brideshead Revisited and entered the Alexandria Quartet.

At  Rockport Harbor, where I trawl my deviant and waylaid mind in the shuck of perverse thinking, I was approached by a stranger. It wasn’t enough that the monstrous quiddity of a genteel New England harbor, with its liberal cilia, all danced in the rarified air of the big snout of freedom, but  a stranger wanted to know if I would like a schooner ride followed by a sponge bath and a tasty sea cucumber. Looking down the bridge of my medium-sized sniffer, that also likes the freedom to inhale, I replied, “Afraid not, I’m here on an extramarital affair.”

“Life is a very contradictory business and anyone who thinks otherwise is a priest.”

But I want to see a cloud.  Or a flocculent sward of clouds drifting way up high or a cumulus sunk low but peaked with radiating light.


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