Raniy Palm Tree House

Sitting on the sofa, ignoring an apartment desperate to be cleaned, enjoying the company of Yaw and the fur bellies, I hear the familiar pit-pat sound of rain outside.

I peel myself off the couch and step out on the walkway to observe.

Pit-pit-pat-pat-pat. Tippa-tap-pat.

The sky is brightened by the light reflected from here below. It appears to be a light grey with hints of lavender. The air is cool and soft breezes are stirred by the rain as it comes down from the sky and touches on the branches of the oaks, the blades of the palm fronds. Somehow the trunks of the palm trees are protected from the steady streams of water, as is my place on the walkway where I stand safely dry and watch the cloud shapes drift lazily through the atmosphere until pushed into frenzied activity by a stray breeze.

I listen to the silence of the world around me as it is softened by the blanketing rain. I hear cars passing on the wet street. Whoosh, whoosh, shhhhh.

A stray rain drop is blown off a palm blade and onto my arm and I suddenly am reminded that the air is cool out here and there is a warm sofa, two fur bellies and a Yaw inside. I suddenly miss those things and step back inside to return to hearing the muted pit-pat sounds through my open window.

The palm tree house remains my shelter in the storm. Let the world rage around me. I will remain here where there is comfort and safety until forced to join the battle.