Listening for rain

It is night and it is quiet. I'm listening.

And then the rain draws near. Gentle from a distance, thunder rolls lowly, slowly, but each is closer than the last. A faint rustle moves through the trees outside my window like a passing spectre. It passes away, leaving silence behind, but the silence is full, pregnant, waiting.

An angrier, louder roll of thunder. The rain is close now.

A few patters. Then more. Faster, and more. The pattering gathers into a collective, drawn-out sigh as a million silver drops find the earth. The large, paternal sound of their accompanying thunder booms overhead.

I wish I could open my window and smell the sultry scent of the rain. I could, but I don't. I don't know why, but I suppress the impulse.

I imagine each drop finding contact with leaves, roofs, cars, street lamps, asphalt, windows, soil. Sliding over and off them, leaving a mirror sheen on everything. I imagine touching a cold drop, turning my finger over, watching the the half sphere of transparency wobble on my skin.

But I don't open the window to look out or hold my hand out in the rain.

I listen instead, the soft, hypnotic sigh of rainfall.