A dark, dark morning, rain pelting down, thunder grumbling overhead. Each car on the freeway kicking up its own wake of spray, the water weeping off the windshield in sheets, headlights glowing yellow through the mist.
I love this rain. I want to wallow in it, strip off my clothes and roll in the muddy grass, plunge my face into the rushing gutters. Cold, clean, silvery rain against the slate and steel sky, against the dark ragged firs. This is home, this drenched, shadowed, gleaming world.
So come kiss me, sweet-and-fifty. Youth's a stuff that won't endure, but rain's a stuff that will.