My Writing

Rain

I step outside, closing the door and my eyes as I take a deep inhale of the earthy scent that hangs low in the air. I've come in a moment of quiet, the downpour faded to a mist as rainbow droplets slide off shimmering leaves. Walking out of the shelter of my veranda and on to my driveway, I sit down on the icy concrete and extend my arms and tongue out to feel the now increasing rain. My clothes are slowly getting soggy. Rain. The droplets become bigger and more abundant. My head tilts back to the sky, embracing the streams running down my face and body. I'm now completely soaked, I might as well make the most of it. I lie on my side on the gritty cement, softened by the water. I enjoy the patter of the raindrops on the rooves and road, somewhat close to a sleep. The streetlight in front of my house flickers on, illuminating me in a patch of white. Looking at myself in my mind's eye, I feel very poetic, sitting here in the rain at twilight. I turn over to my back and catch the liquid in my mouth, flinching as the bullets of water hit my face. Standing up, I begin to wander down my street, feet sloshing in the flow of water in the gutter. I walk mindlessly, living in the feeling of the pellets hitting my shoulders like a massage. I dig my feet into the mud on this well-worn and well-known path as I find myself standing underneath my favourite tree in the whole town. It's needles are so perfectly arranged along the twigs that it could be from an oil painting or a fantasy story. It is so tall that when I reach the top I feel like part of the sky. I begin to climb, slowly, as not to slip on the glistening limbs. When I reach the top, I sit in the crook that is half the size of a single bed. It's just the right shape for me to lie comfortably. I gaze up at the pine framed stars, the rain having mostly ceased and the clouds receding. I am part of the sky.