A keen observer and the dancing rain.

Each raindrop is a kaleidoscope, if we could only see more closely.

 I wonder as I walk how it would be to stop time, to suspend this watery gift and peek through each one. Perhaps it would be fun to sit inside those raindrops and take that gravity propelled ride to the earth, as I imagine it I feel my inner self laughing - a little at the crazy daydream and a little at my own silliness. I see the rain beads upon the cars, upon each leaf and washing my outstretched fingers. Soon they will pull together, forming the puddles, opening up a whole new avenue of rain-related fun. Perhaps it isn't normal to love a rainy day so much, but who cares about normal anyway? I'm pretty sure "normal" is a made up thing.

Yet together they brought such a soothing sound, a natural melody every bit as beautiful as a mother's soulful hum. I felt each splash that touched my skin, watched my cardigan become a deeper, more rocky hue. It was as if earlier the street had been a matt photograph, only to be washed as glossy as any magazine page.

These were my favorite kind of days where I didn't have to feel bad about not leaving my house. I get up and rub my knuckles onto my eyes. I make myself a hot chocolate with whipped cream and small glittery marshmallows. I take a book with me upstairs and I plop myself down on the couch right underneath my window. Seeing the drops trickle down my window brought a sense of calmness within me. This was the time I could be alone and be myself. I read away and let every moment sink in as it was not going to last forever.

With eyes at rest in the way of dreams, I hear the quenching rain. The percussion of the given water varies according to the surface it wets. There is the drums that are windows, the cymbals that are the concrete floor, and the soft, soft maracas that are the music of the grass. The triangles are the puddles, a high note to pick up the mood, to sing of the joy of the plants upon such a day.

The water droplets fall like they simply cannot think of anything better to do. There is a laziness about them, as if they can barely be bothered to conform to the will of gravity. When I hold my bare arm out of the cabin window the droplets splatter on my outstretched fingers made all the dryer by reading in front of the fireplace. They are large and soft, not like the mean driving rain of back home at all. I tilt my fingers upwards and watch the remnants of the drops run downwards like tiny rivers. If this is the way rainy days are here I could get used to it real fast; even the sound on the cedar roof is comforting. With a half smile I retreat leaving the window open, this way I can hear the steady drumming all the louder while I turn age worn pages of long forgotten books.

Here comes the rain, little darling,' desalinated by nature's own hand and given freely. Here comes the water we need for every part of life we cherish and hold sacred. For it is from the clouds as much as the sunshine that life comes forth, the cozy days of reflection to add to the dancing in warm rays. It deepens every hue, brings a boldness to scenes so familiar, a nuance that is so refreshing to the eye.

The outline is still there, a ghostly shadow of what it was before the heavy rains that pounded the city last night. Above the sky is dominated by tumbling grey, smoky and silver. My eyes stay on my feet across the washed out game and my muscles yearn to hop, to skip. Not today through, today is a day for seriousness, I owe her that much.

The whispering hum as sheets of precipitation plummeted to the water-forsaken ground, the often unanticipated flashes of lightning or the rolls of ominous thunder. She loved it all. Those facts were what truly created, in her opinion, a perfect rainy atmosphere.

Darkened gray smudges of wool threateningly surrounded the sky; like a predator would encircle its prey. A startling low rumble rang loud in the cool fall air, the sky roaring with satisfaction. Trickles of liquid hit the ground with as much force as a small child. Hungrily, drizzles turn into canon fires, barricading everything in its way. A sense of cleanliness caresses the atmosphere, washing away all impurities. A dense earthly sweet smell rises from the ground, enveloping everything within its soft embrace. The skies suddenly settle, as if it were comforted, coaxed even. The fluffy smudges don't part completely - although the sun peeks out timidly- and rather look like its preparing for an even more vicious round.



.The diffused grey light of a darkening sky pushes light just far enough into the corners of the building to see my way to my desk without turning anything on. There's no air conditioning hum, no chatter of colleagues, no flickering fluorescent lights. I sit down slowly, quietly thrilled at the novelty of being alone, absorbing the quiet, the empty spaces, watching the birds through the eastern facing windows in the garden outside, oblivious to me. It starts to rain hesitantly and politely. Comforting rain. inside by the fireplace rain, under the blankets rain. My shoulders relax and my mind quietens and I sink deeper into my chair. I sit and listen to the rain grow heavier and more confident until I`m sure that this is the only thing I should be doing with the rest of the day.