pit patter against the windows surrounding my room.
It's difficult to work in front of a computer when the only thing separating you from feeling the drips of rain strike your cheek is a solid pane of glass.
Sitting behind the glass window under the rain is a tree with bright green leaves and tiny white flowers sprinkled across it's stems. It's leaves and gentle stems drape across my window like curtains.
At times I fall into a lull with the rhythm of the rain pit pattering against my window, and the greyness of the sky that seems to put a shade of color on all that sits below it, like the world's blanket, protecting it from the disappearance of the sun.
Then suddenly, across my window a sparks of color fly by- the breast of a robin perhaps. Midst the gray it was refreshing to suddenly grasp the color. I always wondered why it is that the under breast of a bird is the one of the only features in rain that seems as if it is invincible to the gray shade of the clouds.
Perhaps it's because with rain, the birds huddle among themselves, they face their breasts in as they sit near each other in a circle, and they silently whisper the songs we normally hear to each other, lullaby.
So I guess the robin that flew across my window, must have been the one who finds the rain across its wings, sliding down its beak, fitting gently into its undersides exhilarating. The robin that flew across my window must be the one who finds a way around the single glass pane window.
