How fortunate I am to feel the rain as dawn drifts gently into day. I’ll long for even a single drop when winter comes and takes it away. To hear its heartbeat on leaves and tin, to breathe the scent where earth begins. The chilly air, the fog that spills and blankets soft the sloping hills. It lives — the rain — it speaks, it sings, while all around, the silence clings. The world, it sleeps in its demise, but I — I wake beneath its cries. How fortunate I am to love the rain, to feel it now, as I once did again.