It is trying to rain again, but it is a different front. It is not the steady fall of our winter—gray with only the sound of pour upon the earth. This front is different.
The songs of birds, bugs, and frogs precede the storm. There is a flash of light, then crack and breaking roll of thunder carrying clear through sky that is still more open than rain.
The storm is not a gloom but an energy, of which the rain is but one piece. Its first drops fall light. The tapping of their strikes sounds through windows left open, and another clasp rattles the raised glass panes and picture frames hanging on our walls.
I don’t mind the rain. I just don’t like the gloom. This storm is different. It has energy. It has life, like the world again on which it falls—finally.