There is something mystical about rainy mornings.
I woke up to a typical Sunday morning. Made myself a cup of coffee. I looked outside and the window panes are hazy with droplets of water. I look outside and the three trees that have become a companion for my eyes after a long day of work, are swaying in the breeze. I listened closely to the light rain striking a chord on the glass on my window. I opened the door to my patio and I felt a sweet breeze and that familiar smell of wet soil.
I felt like writing after 7 years.