VERGING

The sky darkens, the birds call low in the still air, the islands are shapes barely visible in the lowering mist, like memories of islands that once were there... Errant brightness from the south intensifies the stillness here; the leaves hang limp, the trees themselves stand waiting, as if something important is about to happen... Nothing moves... The sky hangs... The dragonflies are all in hiding... The world around is one vast verging...

What stimulus to the spirit, that knows the verge so well...