The Damp

Mist gave way to sprinkles (with scattered stars) and sprinkles turned to drizzle (with no stars.) Even with my window open, I can barely hear it, but the soft sound is like grains of sand being dropped on paper. Only slightly louder is the trickle in the rain gutter. The ensemble makes a relaxing music, occasionally and irregularly punctuated by a percussive splat as a pendant drop falls from eave or tree and strikes a camellia leaf or paving stone. Perpetually distracted by this precipitated pianissimo impromptu, I repeatedly wander into woolgathering, and thus the hours fall, vaporous but sweet, leaving me unperturbed at the loss of them. Though I have accomplished nothing, the garden has been watered, and dawn will reveal beaded grass and roses that sparkle even in the gray light of a cloudy day. Not yet winter, and the night has brought the feeling of spring.