It all begins again

Rain has been sweeping over the country for days, the sky bursting in fits of shuddering deluge like a guilty teenager who can't even keep water down on a Sunday morning. The news shows songs and scenes from the annual Glastonbury mudpit. It is the kind of weather that makes you rush to the window the way you did as a child, just before the thunder was due to roll. I like to open the window so I can hear the hiss that erupts then from every surface, and I think that the Great Snake is meditating again.
The cool air still holds the languid ease of summer; the breeze doesn't rush and when it pours it does so straight down. During the intervals small birds fly to the power lines and sit, their round bodies twitching slightly to keep balance. I suppose I could say the air is fresh, but it is more than that - it is like those few moments of lucidity after a fever has broken, when the room seems strangely empty and you haven't yet decided if you will ever speak again or if you will just stay here in this new bright space, your spirit sandwiched between a whisper and nothing at all.
Looking out I try to see the world as in a myriad of tiny pieces. One feather of one wing of one bird. The arch in the green spine of one leaf. The march of rusted nails along the neighbour's shed. The way the weeds can grow between the cracks in a brick wall. The glimmering streak of a single raindrop signaling that now it all begins again.