The clock down the hall chimes, and I listen for clues, in digital age no one but my grandfather clock says a quarter till. I open my cell phone, sure enough 4:45AM.
I close my eyes again.
Before long thunder joins the flash of light and gently rumbles across the backyard, as a steady rain begins to fall.
Winter rains are never welcome, they serve no purpose except to make things wet, as far as I'm concerned a winter thunderstorm is like putting Prada shoes on a Drag Queen, simply a pointless waste.
In the kitchen, Madison greets me with a tail that thumps firmly against the hardwood floor, I put the coffer pot to work, and then offer an open door to the black lump of fur, she has no intention of moving.
I don't blame her, the dampness and cold rips across the rain soaked deck and leaps into the warmth of her doggie world. I'm sure that if she could talk she ask me if I've lost my mind, and demand that I close the door at once.
But I linger just a moment to listen to the rain and watch the lightning flash across the sky.
Then I suddenly remember it's Sunday, the Post and Courier newpaper can soak in the driveway a little longer, I'm going back to bed.
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