Morning Rain

The rain here is astounding. I can see it through my bedroom window, falling like heavy, heaven’s tears. Like, a gentle waterfall I am standing behind, glimpsing the world beyond the water. In the mornings sunlight blesses my room. I can see cracks of blue sky in the distance, and I am sure I could see rainbows were I on the otherside of the apartment. And I watch it bounce off the cement like jovial children jumping in puddles. The sound on the roof like amplified nothing. The nothing noise that a dead channel makes. I grew up in Alaska, where it rains more than the sun shines. I call myself a water baby. But the rain did not fall with such poetry as it does here. Coming on gently, and then falling with the authority of a symphonic peak. It does not let you ignore its presence.

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