two o’clock in the morning, dull and grey outside with the soft sound of (hundreds of thousands of) millions of raindrops
springing out of the air and coming softly to rest on gravel, grass, snow, leaves, dirt, and rocks.
Pitter-patterput-put-put, splish-splashand dripdrip-drop.
from a distance, the sounds run together and the resultant river sounds like
the spirits of gathering waves on a blue and misty ocean.
its rolling sound curls. curves. undulates, as though lady wind were struggling to find
words, but instead voicing pure emotion embossed with silver mist.
c. Mary Kathryn Gough