Although it is halfway through April, the weather is definitely acting manic-depressive, in Melanie's words. A slow drizzle has been slowly saturating the city for most of the day, accompanied by thick, grey, lowering clouds. In fact the clouds are lowering enough to make it kind of misty. From the window of my third-floor apartment, which is set up in the foothills and affords an excellent view of the valley, most of the city has been rather shrouded in the greyness, which made sunset and twilight a rather surreal affair. Now the clouds have lifted just enough that I can see the city lights sprawling out across the valley, accompanied by the sound of cars traveling down the wet and busy road that runs past the building.
It's the kind of night that would have found me outside, barefoot, tromping through the grass and damming the gutter about fifteen years ago, reveling in the rain, the spring, even the coolness. As my toes would slowly get colder and colder, I would have jumped and skipped and sang, fancying myself a dryad or a wood sprite, unless one of my brothers happened to find me, in which case they would have teased me and my temper would have flared. But usually that didn't happen.
One thing I miss the most when I live in an apartment is having a yard. A little place of my own to dig in the soil and have a garden, to dance in the rain, to lay on the grass and gaze at the stars, to just sit in the sun and soak up its warmth or to enjoy a good book. And when I'm home for a visit, I try to steal out back to turn a few cartwheels and say hello to the rose bushes and if I'm there at the right time, watch the sun set over the orchard and see the stars come out. I've made Michael sit outside with me a few times to do that. I don't think he understands why I enjoy it so much. But he humors me.
Rainy nights make me contemplative, as you can tell. I believe I will take my contemplation and curl up in a blanket with a book. Since I have no yard to glory in the rain, I will take the second best option for tonight.