It’s raining. The kind of rain that doesn’t just show up, it settles in like it’s unpacking for a long stay. Looking at those clouds right now, I’d say they’ve paid the rent and brought a suitcase full of gloom.
My little dog—wise soul that he is—is curled up in the corner, taking one look outside and deciding, nope, not today. He’s not risking pneumonia just to sprinkle a few trees and sniff the gossip of neighborhood squirrels. And honestly, I get it. He’s got that animal wisdom we humans sometimes forget: not every battle is worth the sniff.
Now this isn’t your cinematic storm. No thunderous booms or hail tapping a beat on the windowpane. No. This is the misty, soft-spoken kind. The one that seeps into everything—your coat, your bones, your thoughts. Persistent. Like an old friend who shows up to talk and doesn’t know when to leave.
The raccoons and badgers are still out there, though. Nature’s little rogues, not easily dissuaded. And the birds? They could fly, sure, but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere calling their name today. So they sit, like we do sometimes, just waiting it out.
Over the years I’ve come to know rain in all its personalities. There’s the freezing kind—sharp as a broken promise. The thundery kind that’s all bark, maybe some bite. Then there’s the downpour, the floodmaker, the one that teaches you how small you really are.
I’ve lived in places where rain is more constant than conversation. But it took working from home, sitting by a window with a cup of lukewarm coffee and a stack of paper work, to fall in love with it again.
Because rain, when you let it in, takes you back. To days when you were a kid, stomping barefoot through puddles like a conquistador on the march. Or when you were twenty-something, soaked through on a job site, learning that maybe the world didn’t revolve around your plans.
And now, here I sit—dog on the floor, furnace humming its lullaby—and I watch the shed roof gather glistening pearls. The trees hold out their hands like monks in prayer. The grass drinks like it’s been waiting all week for this particular sermon.
Rainy days invite you to slow down. Stretch out on the rug, put on a record, revisit that book you never finished. Or maybe just let your mind wander across old memories, like rain sliding down a window.
And here’s the beautiful twist: when it ends, the world feels renewed. Roofs sparkle. Streets shine like they’ve been buffed by angels. Even the air smells fresh—clean, hopeful. Trees stand taller. Grass puts on its Sunday best. And for a fleeting moment, the whole world whispers: Everything’s gonna be okay.
Thanks for dropping by my little corner of the world. If the story gave you a chuckle or made you pause and think, a like would be mighty kind. And if you’re feeling adventurous, well, hitting that subscribe button is like pulling up a chair and staying a while—always room for one more.
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A Kings 
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