There are no voices in the rain but the laughter of the trees as heaven falls through their hair. They sway and dance, rejoicing under the grey clouds. Their limbs wave over me as I sit under their green umbrella. The lake is a confusion; its surface is broiling. I watch the patterns the rain makes, see shapes and figures in the chaos.
The air is thick. The air is cold. I am cold. I am wet. I am far from home.
The shelter of the trees is shelter from the rain, but I long for home, to be home.
Tale Told 