Rain On A Tin Roof

I can hear the hard rain...beating on  my roof. It sounds like someone drumming on a metal trash can, the sound large and hollow. My roof, or at least most of it, is 100 years old and made of tin. Several years ago I painted it fire-engine red, but now it is slightly faded, but you can still easily pick out my house from the surrounding neighbors from a Google satellite image.

My dogs are upset this morning because they don't want to penetrate the rain curtain which separates them from the outside. Samantha instead is lying on my bed, her body so elongated that you would think some how she had been stretched. She peers out the window through the lighted crack between the sill and the shade. I'm not sure what she sees. Maybe a rabbit, maybe a tree branch blowing in the wind or perhaps she is in a hypnotic state, the way rain can do that to you.

The rain, when hard enough, feels to me like an insulated blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon, but serving instead as a sound barrier. I could scream and no one would hear me nor I them. I feel protected. My to do list is no longer at the top of the list and my worries are momentarily forgotten. I just want to lay here on my bed and sleep. And dream of all things wonderful.