I find it apt

I find it apt to give the rain the credit it is due. For long, you and your torrent sang to us--those caged in "windowless" bedrooms and roofless roadsides. I was at the waiting shed and, your friend, the clouds (dark as they were), told me you were coming. So I stayed, shaking my left leg incessantly as I stood. Dum di dum. Tappity tap. And I started to sing and. You arrived in a rush. I continued in my trademark faux baritone, attempting the best failure of a Louis Armstrong cum Ella Fitzgerald I could. Miserable. I laughed. It seemed that you liked my crappy singing. More tears. Heavier drops--bigger with the weight of the world--pitter pattered on the aluminum roof. I stopped and let you continue. There's nothing better than your urging me to continue my singing. I stopped and ended with a silent reverie. Breaking the noise with my silence. No, my darling. I will not go singing. I have given you the credit you are due. Continue your serenade while I cage myself again in my "windowless" bedroom.

-August 18 (2007?), 2:07 pm