There are few things more cozy than sitting in a softly lit room, in a soft chair, listening to the comforting sound of rain softly dripping.
Golden lamplight reflects off the wood-paneled walls. Golf channel is on tv in the background, but it’s too quiet to make much of a difference. Jason Day’s birdie putt is being replayed for the 7th time. I turn my attention away from the tv as thunder rolls in the distance. It’s the kind of thunder that’s not loud enough to be menacing but just soft enough to remind you that the outside world is there and storming.
Sketches of local attractions grace the walls. Someone drew a picture of a nearby lighthouse. Somebody, I think, is a good artist.
Outside the thunder gets louder, and the rain starts pounding on the roof. A flash of white lightning, in cold contrast with the room’s golden glow, reflects off the wooden floor.
Oh, now the storm is furious. Listen to that rain! It’s a constant fearful noise, like chewing on nails or taking deep, shuddery breaths. I’m glad I’m not in the shower, pops into my mind from somewhere or another.
A little whistling noise, high-pitched like a boiling kettle, as wind whips around the corner of the house. Everything inside is warm and cozy, but I can imagine the cold rain down my back, like icy fingers trickling down my spine.
But everything inside is soft tones of gold and brown, and now everything outside is calming down. The rain slows back to its soporific drip, and as it drips off the gutters and onto the deck it makes an ever-slowing drumbeat. The storm was short and furious; now it’s sleepy and comforting. I reach for my iPod and earphones to listen to some music, but something makes me stop. It’s the rain dripping. I want to sit here and listen to that sound before it’s over.
There’s something magical about simple of drips rain falling from the sky.