This photo is of the treehouse I used to live in... where I wrote the poem that follows...
It would be silent, but for the cicada.The wet ground silences footfall; quiets snapping twig.
Gray sky...solid; no blue, no horizontal shaft.
It's been a stormy day.
I love this light...
a transitional light that humbles the colors of life,
a light not yet twilight,
not yet ready to retire.
One that speaks to spirits lingering after a storm.
A solstice light, worthy of a summer evenfall.