the rain doesn’t fall, it drifts in, a river on the mountainside of billowing mist. breathing becomes drinking, seeing through tear glazed eyes, and everythings wet. sound is muffled, the outlaws out to play. i hope you find me there sweating in my gear, covered in dust, leaves, and mulch. when the work gets all over me, i know i did my best. if i’m grunting, straining, gaining, paining, and veining out, without a doubt, remember that a smile on the lips, is a snarl without sound. why would you stop the singing, praying, or the braying of a hound just to make a sound? talk itself is cheap, i am either free or expensive, do please pick one. like the triangle of cost, cheap, fast, good. pick two. or even better yet, none, has the work begun?