The smell of rain or, at least, the smells it enhances. And the sounds. After big thunder and downpour last night, a trickle of water now drips from the sky like a recently closed faucet, and the birds celebrate in song while the plants offer their aroma to the sky in thanks. Big drops on the windscreen commingle in a slow dance with gravity. And through it all a cool breeze blows softly, freshening.
Sleep would not abide with me last night and now there is a heaviness, commencing at the eyes it spreads out and down, all over. I feel it in the hand that writes, manifesting as an ache in the wrist; I notice it in the mind as it presses against my forehead, causing a slight crossing of the eyes. It even reaches my feet as they press into the floor. I am a drop on a windscreen commingling. Gravity holds me down.
Gravity is not a force to be reckoned with - it is too powerful for that. My pen moves as if in honey, my whole world surrounds me like a fishbowl filled with the stuff. Viscous, gravity today has substance.
And I see a fence railing resting on another; I recall the beam in the barn breaking; I notice trees with missing limbs, and I am reminded that gravity gets us all in the end. The gravity of the situation is this.