Rainy Sundays

The birds have been chirping this morning. One in particular has perched itself on the edge of the balcony, it’s dark feathers soft against the April breeze. Birch trees caressing the wind softly, angular and bright green, like emeralds touching branches. Stucco brown houses with black trim, grey paneled roofs, with large bay windows that are outlined in white. Cobblestones down the way remind me of the beach shells I brought back home two Summers ago.

I crave warm weather with sun that kisses my shoulders, making me tanned. In early beach memories, I would lean against the palm tree in my pink bathing suit. Curls flying with the ocean breeze, my smile so big my eyes look closed.

Now, it’s Spring, which can be cold, expectantly wet and moist. Freshly green with skies of creamy clouds they swell with water and shake furiously. The drops are light, embroidered in pollen, as they fall to the ground. When it rains, I like to hear the thunder, strong lightning that pounds and soothes. I enjoy soothing things like rain. When I look up again, I see that bird again, the one that keeps coming back. Maybe it’s an angel that came to visit me.