Big Rain Little Rain

Copyright 2012 Clay Spicer

Ryan walked on the side of the hill. He did not go to the top because that was not their property. He heard a bird call and he stopped to listen to it again. He waited. There was nothing. He searched the tall grass in the field beside him to see if he could find it. He didn't know what he would do if he did. He wondered what kind of bird it was. He didn't know the sound. He imagined it was a bob white.

He looked toward the house. It sat on top of the next hill under the trees at the crest. The windows glowed in the evening light. It was getting dark.

That view of the house gave him some pleasure. He thought he would write about it about later that night when he wrote at the desk in his room. He had taken to doing that ever since the beginning of the year when he took a college bound English class in his high school. He started writing then and he kept a journal.

He had read all the books on his parents shelves. He started with the Odyssey when he was ten years old. He moved onto Hemingway, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Maugham, Fitzgerald and many many more. He also read what was suggested by the school librarian. She had lists of books that kept his mind going. It was the only time he really had something in his mind. The rest of the time he sensed and felt more than he thought. He hoped that would change some day soon.

The day was coming to a close and he was out in it looking for something to write about that night. He heard the bird again and he stopped walking. He listened. He couldn't get a fix on the sound. He heard it and then it was not there. The brush was too dense to spot it. The grass had grown up. There were patches of black berry briars mixed in. It could have been right next to him and he would not have easily seen it.

The property sloped from the top of the hill where the old house was under the trees to the overgrown pasture back to deep woods where the spring that fed the pond next door was. Ryan liked to walk around out there in the evening. It was poetic to him. He hoped it would give him the words he searched for when he wrote late in the night.

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