She Likes to Watch the Rain
A girl presses her nose against the window,
tracing the scurrying raindrops with her eyes as they
race down the glass pane.
She likes to watch them race,
silently cheering them on,
wondering why the clear droplets are in such a hurry.
They seem to slither,
like little round snakes. They grow and stretch as they run,
leaving a trail of tiny, baby raindrops.
She watches with studious eyes,
unable to pull away,
for she is fascinated by the rain.
She loves the sound of it, the smell of it;
she loves the way it slithers, the way it slants in the wind.
She soon realizes her breath has fogged the glass,
and she draws back to wipe it away.
when she peers out again,
the droplets have reached the bottom of the windowsill
and slipped over the edge so that she can see them no more.
It is then she closes her eyes
and listens to the lullaby
of a thousand gentle pitter-patters against the roof,
It surrounds her,
sings to her,
with the occasional rumble of thunder.
The lightning sends a sort of happy thrill shuddering through her thin frame,
but she likes it.
Her toes stretch to reach the ground
as she slowly sways herself back and forth in the old,
wooden rocking chair.
The motion is soothing,
and it provokes deep thought for such a profound evening,
even for such a little girl.
Moments later, she opens her eyes–
to find that three more raindrops are racing.
Her nose returns to the glass pane.
For she likes to watch the rain.