It’s so calm in the mountains.

The rain hitting the tin roof.

It’s absolute bliss.

I could lay forever in this cot.

It’s so rare to achieve perfect stillness.

I’ve achieved it.

For now.

I’ll only lay here for the duration of the rain.

Stillness in respite.

That sort of thing is fine.

An even finer thing is motion.

Or the smoothing of mental turbulence through footfalls.

Footfalls as regular as drops of rain.

I’d soon fall into rhythm.

There were just a few things to secure in the ruck.

Just a few more indeterminate eternities to cascade onto tin.

Just a few more to bathe my soul.

The smell of damp earth, dead leaves, and pine drifted in among the timber aroma of the cabin.

A perfect touch of cool refreshing air through a slightly cracked window.

An invitation beckoning my strides.

Yet the rain, so right, so rhythmic kept them resting till the appointed stave.

Unbidden through the stillness harmony speaks.