The rain is back, drumming the roof and playing music in the downspout. The drapes billow, and a draught of cold air brings into the room an earthy scent that has a faint undertone of something slightly sweet, and a bit like almonds. I have no idea what it is. There is little to see tonight, there being no moon to lend the clouds some bit of light, so my awareness is dominated by sound and smell, and the feel of cold and damp. There is a voluptuousness to a cold, rainy night. My fingers may grow numb as I fumble with the keyboard, and my ears tingle with each gust of wind, but even these sensations are a delight, like a cold bowl of ice cream on a hot summer day. I feel downright sybaritic.
All afternoon, the cat sits on the porch, watching the rain fall. After a morning of blustery winds and furious downpours, the storm has gentled, and the glittering gray streaks slow, turning to isolated drops that send concentric circles across the shiny pavement where they land. With dusk, the rain is reduced to mist, and the clouds settle to become fog. Porch lights come on and grow halos, and living room lamps glow softly through wet windows. The shapes of the forest loom about the placid houses, and is filled with the drumming drips of the abated storm. Wind sounds in the treetops, but is no longer fierce. It is like a sigh of relief released at the end of some arduous task. Still, the drifting clouds obscure the moon and stars, and hang a dark portent above the wet world. The serene evening may be but a lull.