It moves against the trees and the side of the building like pin-filled waves.
It's raining. I can hear it. I am listening, drawn to its perfect noise, like the sound track to a film noir movie. This rain, it slaps agains the paving stones underneath the downspout like a hand clap. It moves against the trees and the side of the building like pin-filled waves. It falls and drips over the yard light like honey. There is no law, no amendment for it. This rain follows no party, has no allegiance. It does not care for you.
But that's a lie.
Really, that is a lie.
- Suzanne Crone