The back porch glistens in the gray light of the morning. The rough concrete is smoothed over by a thin sheet of water, the rain bringing out deeper hues than the sun can dream of. Green tinges the edges of the concrete slab, yearning to throw out fuzzy arms and spread its mossy way from railing to railing.
The rain is light, but steady, collecting pearl-like under the railings, waiting to gather enough friends together to break grip with the dark metal and fall once again.
Beyond the railing, the bushes wave their hands, excited to receive the heavenly drink. There is no sun breaking across the tops of the trees, crowning them in golden heat. He has hidden himself today, sleeping under thick, gray, downy blankets. The trees will wait for him. They are nothing if not patient.
A wren sits at the top of one of the bushes, flicking and ruffling its feathers every other second to dislodge the cold drops the pummel it from above. It dives deeper into the foliage, then up to the top again. It is uncomfortable, but prefers the rain to the dark inside.
High above, barely visible, another bird soars across the flat gray expanse. What drives these creatures to venture out when the sky is crying? What causes them to take to the air when the elements are so opposed to their very makeup? They sing just as if it were a sunny spring morning, welcoming the day for what it is - another day, another chance at life.
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