Friday, October 31, 2008


It is dark.

The room is filled with the quiet sound of rain.

A soft flowing hush from outside the open window interspersed with the
sharper patter of drops falling from the eaves and splashing into the
puddles below.

I can smell the rain in the room.

I can taste the hint of rain on my tongue.

I lay perfectly still, cocooned inside the old heavy quilt,
temporarily warm.

I do nor want to wake up but realize that in the thought of not
wanting to wake up I am already awake.

The light in the room is pale and white reflected from the
streetlights outside streaming through the broad green leaves of the
tree by the window.

I can separate the sounds of rain now.

The steady hush as it hits the pavement.

The slightly sharper sound of rain on the roofs of the cars parked
along the street.

The hissing of the rain on the ceiling over my head.

The tapping of rain on the leaves of the trees outside.

The slight discordant counter-point of large individual drops hitting
the frame of a window.

A symphony of rain, intricate and interlinked.

Sent from my iPhone

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