Water In All Its Forms

We have taken our last walk of the night, thankfully just as the storm turned, rain changing to snow. Now we sit on the patio, three stories above the greened grass and the puddling parking lot, the clouded sky an orange  blanket above us broken only by the occasional flash of wide, arcing lightning leftover from the earlier storm. Olive and Duncan, perched at my feet, startled at the last bright spark and the rumble from above and scurried inside where the candles flicker and Philip Glass plays on a loop on the stereo. Strangely the sprinkler system is running, hissing below, but not loud enough to drown out the soft flutter of the snow on the crisp, frozen grass, or the gentle dropplings of the rain. The night is loud with the sound of water in all its forms, frozen and running, steaming from under the newly parked cars.

Soon it will be time for bed. I'll lay awake long into the night, listening to the rain and snow storms and humming softly to the warm, furry bodies curled around me, wondering what color the world will be in the morning when the light falls on my eyes and they flutter open.

Springtime in The Rockies.