When the exhausted rain comes everyone can be thankful, rustic light shattering the branches of the sorrowful red Oak sentinels that guard this prismatic place. A haunted lake of grace swelling to the muddy banks and echoes of the petite barn owl, a wilderness of pain and complete, perfect silence. A million birds, nay- a billion waiting on a morning storm; how afterward the sun will shine on each blade of grass. The heavy pottery on my cedar and stone cabin porch of this pine isle darkened like spider clouds, fixed the leaking roof; like everything and everyone it is painful to look at; how it yearns for the silken water now a smoky puddle.