It came down all night. She could hear its soft pitter patter on the deck, on the windows, occasionally rousing in volume, ferocity.
In the morning, when she parted the blinds, she could see spools of water accumulated on the deck floor, on the patio table. But it had stopped raining.
Overhead, the clouds were thick, voluminous, but no longer an angry grey. In several spots across, small patches of blue sky peeked out.
She smiled, slid open the patio door and breathed in deeply, this fresh, light morning air, so redolent of wet earth, spring flowers. The promise of spring.