The night is kind to me. To walk under lamps and watch the steam of your breath mirror that of the smokestack. Under the blanketed dimness, low clouds reflect light from above, and illuminate glistening drops of precipitation; low, swaying branches bow under weight of new-found life.
It’s so quiet, yet the night is filled with the sounds of rain. Absent are the day voices, replaced with the chorus of the pitter-patter; a subdued caucophony sliding down from the rooftops and gutters for a solo audience.
It’s why I love the night; the rain - the gentle dull pain of being alone.