Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote...

It is dreary tonight: six-thirty and the lights over the parking lot are already on. The clouds in the overcast sky are slowly, steadily billowing in from the west, and the slight drizzle seems to be emboldened by the encroaching darkness. The wind is cool for a late October evening, a welcome preview of what's to come.

As I sit here, waiting, I can't help but to be struck by the beauty of it all. The clouds, the lights, the rain, the wind, the darkness: I have no control over any of these, and they're beautiful. The lights, as it grows darker, seem to be staking a claim on their territory. They seem to be saying, "I'll claim this much as my own and no more, and I will be content." Each morning they turn off, and each evening they turn on again, ready to claim exactly what they had the previous night. The rain, barely visible before, takes advantage of the lights to make itself shine. It dances with the wind through the beams, seeming to float towards its new home on the ground as it pleases. The wind lets the rain enjoy its dance, but is secretly manipulating it to do exactly as it pleases. The rain will fall exactly where the wind decides to place it, and there is nothing that can be done about it. The clouds billow by and the darkness encroaches, oblivious to the games.