Sweet
If you were here, you would hear, raindrops dance on the concrete stairs under my window, sweet incense out and twinkling chime chatter in. Wind like nosy nubby cold fingers short, intrusive but familiar. Some droplets fall in timed patterns, ticking like watches, others like teenage boys practicing percussion into morning, quiet with a shirt over the drum head. Other drops completely non-rhythmic, startling, surprising, if your listening. The wind swirling singing soft delicate on the window paine. The clumsy rolling of fat metal boxes on the the slick macadam. If you were listening. On other nights I’ve listened to the pages rub together, delicately pulling off, the rumble of the motor cat in his sleeping wicker, the cracking of knuckles on the wall, the swipe of cotton socks, and even the pleasant coo like snores you make and endlessly deny. When I remember to listen the world is simple and beautiful. I recommend listening, if you were listening.