The wet cotton clouds grew heavy and cast larger shadows on the land. A lofty farmhouse sat vacant next to the large open field of grass, clover, and wild daisies. She laughed as she looked across the large field. The awkward rays of sunlight illuminating the windblown field beneath the imposing dark clouds. It was like a dream.

The rectangles in our pockets buzzed as we realized we’d be sheltering for some time. This wasn’t where we wanted to go, but it’s exactly where we wanted to be. We sat next to each other with nary to say. We’d talked a lot. She could talk about anything for any length of time. If I was on the right topic, I could even break her records. My mind wandered.

Is it just me, or do our minds just naturally default to the weather? The most basic and relatable topic of any discussion that is always relevant and within the range of our senses. I didn’t even get to ask, as that’s simply where she started our next conversation. She had fastened her hair over her right shoulder as we partook in a discussion of recent weather events.

We were searching.

We were shooting too far.

We were reaching and tenacious.

We were approaching hope.