Wind whips, the hemlocks dip and sway. I sit in silence, sipping green tea. Waiting for solitude to do its work. To stir my soul in ways I cannot see, cannot make happen. Something about simply being here, setting myself in the cool of the day when sun is obscured by greyness and rain is at my back... something about it feels like a swabbing, a sweeping, a winnowing. Nothing happens per se, no lightning with this particular mist, from these clouds on this day. I am just sitting. Letting the wind wail, the trees speak. Sitting. Waiting.