A Short Note on Rain

I love the sound rain makes on the skylight above my desk. It's like a crowd of tiny people applauding very politely. Today it rained all afternoon, and I worked slower than usual, on purpose, because I didn't want it to end.

The cat slept on the radiator. The kettle went twice. Somewhere around four, the clouds cracked open in the west and the whole street turned gold for about ten minutes, puddles shining like spilled honey.

My neighbor's kids ran outside in rain boots and stomped every puddle on the block, shrieking. Their dad stood on the porch holding a coffee mug and didn't stop them. I waved. He waved back with the mug.

I didn't do anything special today. I just noticed things. That might be the most special thing I can do.