Campfire Sessions — 13may25

And, sometimes, it rains.

I pick up the rain-soaked branch, examine it and hope that by doing so it becomes dry enough to begin. That kind of hope is futile when the weald wants rain. And, today the forest wants the rain. I chuck the piece of firewood to the pit and wander down one of the myriad paths branching out from one of the myriad firepits of the wode, all of which are the same firepits and yet all have their own accord.

The raindrops are more than drizzle but are not downpour. Each drop has heft enough to patter against leaves both brown and green, as spring brings both the dead and the newly birthed within reach of each other. The other time that happens is in autumn, most especially at that liminal time where the world crosses from October into November. Although born of Spring, I am Autumn’s child — perhaps it is the mixture of withered dying and verdant life that draws me to both seasons.

I do not know. I only know that I am Autumn’s child and that Spring borrows me for Her season, maybe out of a sense of duty to those born under Her banner, and then returns me when She has had Her fill.

The rains fall in larger drops, and there is the occasional rumble in the flint skies above — nothing to make anyone run for shelter at the sound; it is more as if the sky were a great grey cat wrapped around this place that has given to purring to let you know it is quite content with itself.

They shake their feathers off on my shoulder. Raven was not there moments ago, but They don’t always announce Their coming. Sometimes, Raven just is.

Thanks, I say, wiping away at my now water-logged ear.

Don’t mention it.

I amble more than hike or, even, make any real attempt to walk. There is no where to go and there are even fewer places to be. And I’m drenched, so there is no point in seeking shelter from this storm. At first one obscure song starts running though my head: Gimme shelter, shelter from the storm… but it is quickly replaced.

Ooh, a storm is threatening
My very life today
If I don't get some shelter
Ooh yeah I'm gonna fade aw—

What nonsense, says Raven. Tripe. Drivel. Shit.

I look at Them asconce, I beg your pardon. I happen to like that song. If you would prefer to not hear it, you are welcome to get out of my head.

I’m only saying that the storm above has no such intentions.

I look up. Raven is right in saying that it doesn’t appear to be very dangerous. However… It was only a song that happened to come to mind and I remain slightly disgruntled for the chastising. Because I am feeling belligerent, I continue to singing in my head, daring Raven to say anything about that.

War, children
It's just a shot away...

Well… you see there… that part makes sense.

I stop. What?

We’re close. Very close. Maybe not even a shot away.

I turn my head back to Raven. What the hell do you mean?

If Raven could be kicking an imaginary rock off my shoulder, They looked as if that might be just what They was doing as They sat there, staring at Their feet.

Nevermind, quoth the Raven. Or something to the effect. Not worth talking about when one is getting drenched in the rain. It just brings down the mood.

The rain? Or the subject matter?

Yes, They replied and then perked up. Skip to the good part.

It is all good parts, Rave—

There are good parts and there is the best part… And then They sang. It was not a half-bad Mick imitation, I would have to admit.

Love, sister
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away

And so on and so forth, They went on, even adding in the fade out.

And then we walked, listening to the pitterpatter of the rain on trees, leaves, mud and stone. And quite a bit of the sound as it hit our heads.

What were you saying about war being just a shot away? I pressed.

I said it was monkey sushi.

And when I turned to ask what that was supposed to mean, all that remained was a few downy feathers drifting down on my shoulder, each one oblivious to the rain.