rain blanket

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The rain is tapping out a drum beat on my roof. At times it is so fierce in its delivery, it is hard to hear the space between drops.

I lie basking in the warmth of my couch, immobilized by the peace it brings.

I imagine the edges of the river rising. The streets must be full of water, overwhelming storm drains, sweeping leaves into intersections. The rush of water drowns out the steady whoosh of cars on the freeway.

It’s been months since it rained, or at least it feels like it. It’s like the clouds are releasing everything they held back in one night. The vines are drinking it in like parched man finding an oasis in the desert. The ski resorts are celebrating.

It’s late. I should go to bed, but I can’t seem to abandon the comfort of my couch pillows slumped around me. It’s dark and still in my house, only the breath of the heater disturbing the quiet.

And so I stay still, tucked in by my rain blanket.


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