I supose when starting a story, there’s an urge to look around, to decide where the best place to begin is. Once the story gets moving, once the plot takes over, the weather is thrown out the fucking window. Defenstrated, as it were.

But at the beginning, at the very beginning, before character or action or any other narrative elements you get the weather. Sometimes it’s just a sentence. Maybe even just a clause in a sentence. But it’s there.

And there’s something beautiful about that. No matter where else you might end up, at the beginning there’s always weather. And as long as there’s weather, there’s always new beginnings.

Outside my window, a gentle rain soaks the newly laid mulch, darkening the asphalt.