The mist that leaves the vapour in the morn
Crafts fragile drops of aqua,
Gently glides down the windows
Of an empty classroom.

Crisp cold enters from rough winter winds,
The doors would shut themselves,
As a gentle shower of rain would burst from the big grey blanket
That carpeted the skies.

Rain would fall.
Pitter
Patter,
Pitter,
Patter,
Upon the tin roof.

As I watched more of those soft, small orbs of water stream down the chilled glass.