Inside my home, I hear speckles of rain falling on the floor in a constant melody. On the roof a puddle builds in the linings of trickled water, sending a splash onto the face of the concrete paved closed to the sliding glass door. The fence that holds the privacy of the backyard is wet on the top. For the boards that stick out, they catch each dew drop applied by the heavens. Yet when I gaze from the back, not seeing it all openly, the majority is dry, but I could imagine it to be cold if I would attempt touching. This may sound like a picture of an ordinary rainy day that we may have in common. Though, the question pulses within the kinds of inspection. Where is the beauty in that of a rainy day?
Beauty
