Storm.

Wind buffets around my cabin and my candles flicker. The fingers of the storm threw rain at the windshield of my car, and at the black shadow of the street, slick and secret, disappearing underneath the dim beam of my headlights.
I listen as the storm moves up around me, catching in the tree tops and whispering a wail around my chimney pipe. It is a night for shadows.
I am bare. The worlds I have let my dreams dwell in these past five months is broken, the bridge no longer there, just a jagged gap in the rock.
I hold my decisions close to my chest, feeling the rightness of them as if they could bite me, so sharp are their teeth; but with them comes weariness, shadows of sadness that are etched across my candle lit walls, moving like lovers, dancing the vianituan waltz.

I want it to rain. Hard. Let it cover the ground, the freshly plowed spring fields, the hard black street, the rusted out hood of the dirty Ford truck, it's windows down, parked for the last time some twenty years ago. Let it rain in the pot holes on black bridge road and deeply sink into the frozen buds of the apricot blossoms. I want it to fill the rain barrel and overflow.
I want it to cover my roof, the sound of raindrops on tin the only thing I drown in. I want it to cover the valley, smudging the lines of the horizon until morning, smudging the lines of my mind until rest and wrestlessness are no longer caught like children, squabbling and pulling hair.
I want to be washed clean of the heavy shadows and bourdans that carry themselves like nomads upon my heart.

Please rain. Come.