The first cold rain

[cyrano]

It's not a summer rain, water temperate and pleasant; it's not the kind of rain you can peel off your clothes and stroll around the grounds in. It's like my ocean. It's cold and hard, powerful and beautiful, and if you don't respect it then it will fuck you up without sparing you a thought. It's raw, and it fills me, and it makes my body shake if I try to simply exist inside of it. It calls out the turning of the world, the changing of the season's guard. It speaks of change, because it is change. It seeps inside, a chill saturating everything, and says that I may do as I please but the earth is going to bed now so keep it down. And I come back to my room, cold and damp, no more prepared to go to sleep than I was, but a little more at peace.

I will miss the thunder, though.