Rain don't bite.

Moist. Slippery. Wet. Breezy. Cold. Wintry. Soothing. Gray. (Shining yellow, orange, purple and a glow reminding this isn't ugly nor pretty.) Clouded. Misty. Thick. Splotched. (Tsk, what a day!) Trembling very, very softly, between my ankles and my teeth. Wool sure is the insulator. Grainy steps from time to time blast a shock of electricity in the right hip; aligning the skeleton takes a nerve. Wound up. Unsure. Distressed. Calm. Like the day's winds; to go anywhere is to turn over and return a few times. Relaxing. Subtle. Clean. While eating a thought assaults all others, rendering them powerless: eating alone for the sake of not eating accompanied (or someone else's meat) is pitiful. Savoring every bite of that burrito, while dreaming of real enchiladas and refritos. Spending a hundred bucks in four days while unemployed. Calculating. Planning. Counting. Expecting. A fool's game of pressuring the crock pot. See if it explodes. At least the rain is just as unusual as the opportunity to blow one's lid over the sky. Musical. Temperamental. Critical. Gusts of wind trample the drops right off the tree branches, spattering them in any readily available surface. Like this jacket, or a pile of persistent leafs from last fall. Nearby, wind chimes laugh at all this Sunday full of indoors-men-and-women hiding from the wonderful bleakness that brings out color in us. This masked depression, massively felt when the sky is low. If a seam of light were to penetrate... Slow. Flowing. Frail. Alive!