Sometimes It Rains

  And the trees drip and the roads run with little rivers and the mud gets slick and there is no place to go. For a bit a group of us huddled in the tiny chapel of Santa Martina but then we stepped back into it again. Packs covered, shirts getting wet, we took the detour to the trail beside the creek. Clear water rippling with raindrops, forest floor matted and damp. Every now and then we would stop and grin at each other, hair pasted to our heads. Soon enough we would be dry again. For most of our life would we be dry. About that we were sure.

October 10, 2015

As Chivas to Pontevedra 


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