Rain, relentless and cold, fills the night with sound, slicks the streets and saturates the ground, spills from eaves and overflows gutters, forms pools which amplify the splattering splashing beat, makes the pine branches droop with its weight, gurgles in the downspout, sounds a hundred different tones depending on what surface it strikes, through all the dark hours. At times the wind sings in the treetops, at times falls still, Then the slow clouds settle in among the trees and drift like some exhalation of the distant sea, giving lights halos and wrapping the forest in flowing shrouds. While the moon passed, the clouds again captured enough of its light to form reflections of the sky on the pavement, as though the storm were gazing, Narcissus-like, at itself, but in a mirror of its own creation. Rivulets darkle down the road verge and carry away the flotsam of decaying autumn. The night itself seems to be flowing toward winter, ebbing into the deep chill which is soon to seize the land. I would not wish to walk through this storm, lest I, too, be dissolved into it like the passing season, swirled in its eddies and dispersed like the dust of leaves to sink to soil in some deserted winter field.