Seldom do I hear the rushing rain in December.
Yet here it is, pouring down the metal and siding, making a waterfall-like audible sensation.
Thunder crackles in the distance and the barren trees stand looming.
The flash of energy is soon replaced by the intruding darkness of the night.
The warm sweet air blows through the trees.
And somewhere I know someone sees this too.
 

They look out upon their field, their patch, having similar thoughts of this peculiar weather.
We sit there listening to the still rain. Feeling its energy, its freedom, flow within us.
We form the falling skies into our visions.
We feel the energy of each other through this rain.
We know not each other's name.
But we know the rain.
And we know the other.