Footsteps echo on the drenched wooden planks along our house. The walls are so thin that it sounds as if the passer-by will walk inside, travelling through the mere inches that separate us from the outside. The dripping staccato of the rain harmonizes with my clicking keys and the whispery scrape of pages. Dum, dum, dum, dum the underlying pattern stays the same, as they form, fall, splat, and soak into the wooden planks outside my window. I can not see their cycle, but can hear their doom from inside of the wall. Their brother drops cling haphazardly to the screen. The older and larger surrender to gravity as the younger hold desperately on, watching their siblings die. A few of the wiser drops have made it to the window pane, which while slicker is also a mere sideline to the battle waging outside. The brave ones, or the foolish, are pounding the snow, crushing it into slush and then to mere mud. As I sit, an unaffected witness to the war, the mimosa plant between my seat and the window is crying out for the sun. While sitting in the warmth of the house, held captive from nature, he attempts to open his leaves and gather the few rays cast by the hidden sun and the florescent lamp. But for most of his arms, the darkness has won and he shutters their leaves, leaving only a few open as the storm intensifies and the light turns off.
Sadness is what I have seen today as the rain wages battle with snow, and a dying plant watches on.
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