The sky darkens, the wind picks up, the rain falls, yet the little bird still sits on the electric line as if nothing is happening. Patter of rain on the window frame. The room is cast in the gray shadows of overcast morning light. The rain becomes a torrent, hammering the ground. The little bird chirps and flits away.
The light grows darker still. The birds chirp out in the field across the road. The sound is a rush of static from millions of drops landing. The electric lines sway gently. A frog begins to croak. Raindrops cling to the screen in mottled patterns. A car drives by on the street, its tires cutting through the water. My skin cools. The air feels cleaner. The rain continues.
Thunder rumbles, echoing through the town. The rain slacks off a bit. The vacuum of sound revealing the waterfalls from the roofs as they trickle and gurgle. There is a vein of light in the clouds and the birds are playing in the droplets. One flies up into the sky, dancing high. The rainstorm passes and life continues.