It doesn’t fall to the earth so much as it caresses it. Slightly heavier than fog but almost as inconsequential. I wake up to wet pavement and a car washed almost clean…almost. And it is a strange thing to miss. Rain. Real rain. The kind that thunders on rooftops and drenches the earth definitively. Not petty or lilting or cautious. Robust and shouting.

I miss rain. Houston thunderstorms rolling in on green gray clouds. Cold fronts sweeping in cool –since summertime cold is an impossibility in the sweltering bosom of the gulf coast.

I miss curling up at the window, book spread open prepared to read, but losing myself in the rhythm of drops and the patterns on windows.

It is the beginning of the rainy season here. The beginning of cold damp days that seep into my bones and leave me shivering. Nothing freezing. Nothing sopping. Something in between. Something necessary to keep trees and grass and living things living. Something to feed the water table for the thirsty masses. Something to demand appreciation for all the cloud-free sunny days the bay offers up with generosity.

I’ll sleep tonight with the sound of slick roads echoing in the distance. The soft splash of tires kicking up puddles poured out from an almost muted sky. Moisture and passing cars the only proof it rained at all.

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