When the rain came down, she was looking out the window at the hills. They should have been green, but they were brown, the life leached out of them by the hot harsh glare of the sun. She watched the long grass sway in the wind, watched invisible hands tug and pull on the stalks, watched the dust turn to mud and the mud turn to puddles. She tracked the invisible movement of the sun through the sky, hidden though it was behind dark pewter clouds.
She watched countless drops beat their bodies into the dust-ridden ground, stamping it into something new. She watched them wash some things clean, like the dusty leaves on the tall oak trees, and watched them make others dirty, like the roots of the grass and the clapboard on her house.
She wished they would wash her clean and dirty, too. Removing some things and covering others.
The rain drummed late into the night, filling the freshwater barrels and making the animals huddle, wet and miserable, under the porch and eaves. When the dawn finally broke over the marbled dark clouds, creating a glorious sunrise to smile on the fresh day, she was no longer watching, and she no longer cared.
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