My Thoughts on a Rainy Sunday Morning Ella Wade The soft rain beads down the lead-paned window, Like the sweat on the brow of a suburban accountant as he softly mows his lawn in the middle of June, Each drop of sweat fighting its way into his eyes. Or maybe the rain drops are like small children, laughing in the way that only the youthful can, as they stumble on their own path confounded by everything around them. Or maybe the rain drops are like jewels, softly they stand on the head of a king newly crowned, glistening in the light before falling at the hands of a contender. Or maybe the rain drops are like seagulls, Riding on the waves, rushing to the shore on the back of a much bigger force, Letting themselves be pulled back out to sea, and back and forth they go with no end. And that was how I spent my morning, Marveling at what celestial truth the water droplets held As my hand followed their unique paths down my lead paned window.
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