Rain

It's hard not to be cravenly in love with the sound of the rain, even though, in adulthood, rain is an inconvenience- a hurdle or even a danger.  Will the basement flood again?  Will my flight manage to take off? Will I have to wedge my car onto the shoulder of the highway and sit frozen under thundering sheets of wet hoping other drivers won't be foolhardy enough to rear end me?

Rain, like snow, slowly converts from wonder to chore over the course of your lifespan.  It's the final stage in the hydrologic cycle, the one no one talks about: condensation-precipitation-infiltration-irritation.

But that sound!  Right now the rain is gentle and the wind is null, so it's a light tapping, a polyrhythm beaten against the lip of the window and the line of the roof and the flat of the ground and my skin when I sneak out for the paper.

Because I'm a fool, I've opened the window, so the sound has filled up the house.  Love may not be envious or boastful or rude, but it is slightly damp.