It's like the sky is angry at my house @.@
the wet version of the big bad wolf
The kind of rain that's meant only to tear petals from flowers
Until, quickly exhausted of its rage, it slows to a gentle drizzle, as if to apologize for the rough treatment with soft caresses.
Falling as softly as the delicate petals id ravaged just moments before

The rains made a fierce return, a powerful vengeance for the fallen drops that had come before
The roof rattled with their fury, a constant and insistent pounding demanding retribution
Thunder, quick and harsh; low and groaning, competed with the pounding rain for auditory domination
Hapless pedestrians fled for cover under the weight of a thousand million tiny warriors, each screaming their battle cry as theyplunged in a kamikaze dive towards the earth and their inevitable death, where they would join the ranks of their predecessors in a flood of corpses

As feirce the storm, the charcoal clouds blushed blue and drifted away, embaressed by the rain and thunder's childish tantrum
The droplets rode the strength of the wind, letting it carry them swiftly across the now-desolate landscape, covering distances they could never achieve on their own
Sheet upon sheet of water flagged across the sky. A silk skirt billowing in a dancer's spin

A young sparrow, smaller than most of its kin, huddled nervously under the wooden awning of the apartment building, seeking shelter from the torrent where it knew none could be found
The deludge upon the physical plane Earth's oldest and purest instrument
It looked on with bleary eyes and a weary expression as the rains fell upon its fellow fliers, those who had not been so quick or cautious as he

The man thinks of how the pool will need drain again. The woman worries about her flowers' harsh treatment. The cat hides and wishes the storm's quick depature. The child imagine the depths of the puddles left behind

But the blitzkrieg assault could not last forever - much of the storm's forces of infantry droplets perished in the early stages and littered the ground. Resources were growing scarce; the fierce winds were dying and the fresh droplets, young and inexperienced, struggled to make waves as they splashed hopelessly from a vertical descent, unable to find a target
The war faded to a battle, the battle to a brawl, the brawl to a simmering feud; the rains had made their statement but victory would not be theirs in this hour

The roof, ground and flowers stood triumphant. Soggy, but proud.

In a story, the sparrow's fate would be known; he might have survived the harrowing ordeal, perhaps even rescued some of his kin and shared what little shelter the awning had provided. Perhaps he drowned in the deluge, surviving only minutes longer, the cover that had been his salvation becoming a prison and finally a mausoleum for his sodden corpse. Were this a story, there would be some finality, some resolution, some meaning to the tale to make it all worthwhile. But this is not a story, and the sparrow passed from memory with neither a whisper nor a scream, fading into the background until one began to wonder whether it had ever existed at all. No thrilling rescue came its way, no daring escape or tragic demise; he was simply there one moment and gone the next, never to be seen again