It's five am, and there's a slow soaking rain.
It came with a single clap of thunder.
It carries
not only the washed clean smell
of falling water,
but also flowers,
Red maple bark,
and autumn leaves.
There's not an ounce of light yet,
but I swear I feel the warmth
just below the horizon
like love that has yet to blossom.
Its echo whispers. Give it time.