By Diane LeBlanc

July 27, 2020


Rain falling on the cabin roof isn’t music or balm or metaphor. For two days and two nights, it’s nothing but water saturating the stairs I descend in the dark to go to the outhouse while my husband sleeps. When he and I met, we lived in these mountains. We hiked and skied and ran our dogs up trails and along ridgelines. Now we’re summer visitors from a flat state, and tonight’s rain is turning rock and wood into slick hazards.

As soon as I fall, I regret everything within reach. I regret not planting my foot firmly on the wet stair. I regret my choking sobs that sound more animal than human. I regret this trip, our move east, whatever has turned me into a clumsy tourist. But even more, I regret causing the fear I see on my husband’s face as he lifts my shoulders and peels me from the mud.

We’re awake, hours later, when the wolves start. Each howl tears through the muffle of rain. My husband shifts his hip on the mattress. I press into him, and distance collapses between rain and earth, falling and fell, wolf and wolf, between boundless space and our confined bodies. I cling to this convergence, the only dry stone in the universe.


Diane LeBlanc is a writer, teacher, and book artist with roots in Vermont, Wyoming, and Minnesota. To learn more, please visit 


Photo by Guillaume Hankenne courtesy of Pexels

comments powered by Disqus « Back to Beautiful-Things

Newsletter Sign Up

shadow shadow