The cloud of a new storm

It's closing in on 1 am and the rain picked up the beat and through the window sounds like an army. Far off I can faintly hear a few patters of thunder in a muted clap long after the flash of lightning has gone. Then it whispers. Almost quiet. Soothing. Flowing away in the river of drains that run through the city below.

And it comes back. Intensifies. Over and over, with each cloud a new storm.

Here and gone.

To this I can sleep till the haze of morning, when the sun sneaks through the last remains and sparkes on the soaked blades of grass.