Can rain truly burn off the sun so quickly?
By seven thirty the morning has streaked my window with its crocidile tears, the clouds moving toward their goal, past my internal world. The mood arises through the dark blackness, only to turn upon itself when a ray of sunshine sprouts through to say Good-day.
My chair moves back to watch the last of the moist nights swan song, waving in the soon to be warm breeze. Light reflecting on a dewy greeting I will venture out as my window listens with washed ears the day comes to life.