Rain

Rain again, rattling like pebbles in a tin can, hissing lonely in the empty streets of friday night. Nobody's even watching because they're all so tired of it. The rain is tired of itself, so it spends its time dreaming.

In its dream each raindrop is a grain of warm dry sand, floating down to the dry streets, rolling along the dry curb stones and making sand rivers that sound like the memory of a snare drum as they pour into the storm drains. Sand puddles fill the low spots in the streets like the opposite of tide pools and wait for someone to jump in and splash them empty. Sand is rolling down windows and walls, and making dunes in the empty parks.

The rain's happy inside its dream. In here there's no cold and wet, just bright sunshine on hot yellow sand. In here the grains are polishing each other bright as they roll down the dry warm streets. In here nobody hates the rain.