A Choice of Senses

Early in the morning, atop the quarry, you smell the wind.
There is smoke in it. Distant fires.
Unseen but breathed in.
You wonder. Is it a wild thing,
or a controlled burn, brush on a farm.
How far might it be?

You smell the wind. There is rain in it.
Dark, heavy. Predicted.
A November rain, just over the horizon.
You can see the edges of clouds over the distant mountains.
The wind, soft and persistent,
blowing your way.
Half a day maybe and it will be here,
the second storm in a week.
There will be flooding
and the distant fire will sputter out.

You shut your eyes.
You hear the last of the Canadian geese,
flying in formation. South.
Towards the storm.

You shut your eyes.
The morning sun rises
and you can feel it on your dark shirt,
on your face. It makes you feel young
and strong, ready to join the geese
in their journey towards the storms

About this poem.

One thing that my years fighting depression has taught me is that it matters what you choose to believe. In the case of the poem, the choice was smell, sight, or touch. In life, it is the liar inside, or the truth of what is around me, those thousands of moments of joy, pleasure, and kindness that make up my life.

It’s going to be a good day.

Tom

The picture was taken at the quarry, as dawn arose.