Down came the rain like a permanent marker. The permanence of fall, of nature, of flame. And the gutters gasped, and the rain slapped until it made sparks when it hit. And down the panes like a waterfall, the cadence of the rain as it thickens and goes slack. The rain shifting sideways, drawing to a hiss. Me in my blanket and the rain out there, all the reasons to be inside. The ground that was brown is green again, and the leaves are brought down to be bagged and blown, stuffed in a can, carted away…beneath the hiss and a long kiss that is this, autumn rain.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: autumn poetry, journal writing, pacific northwest, prose, Seattle, short form, William Pearse writer