Sometimes, the sound of soft rain reminds me of distant applause. It has died down, now. The event must have ended, the crowd dispersed, leaving the auditorium empty and dark. All I hear is the faint trickling of the downspout draining the last of the roof's burden of water, and a steady drip striking some small pool. Maybe this storm had only that one brief evening performance in it, and the remainder of the night will be only this quiet damp. Still, the clouds have not broken up, so there might yet be further entertainment. No thunder and lightning, I think; I sense no such energy in this air, but only a softness that is like being brushed by the petals of cold flowers.