Drowning in the Dirt
		It's just before dawn again. The sky is murky grey. The window is open and that cold morning air chills my skin. I can hear the downpour outside. Drizzles and drips. My eyes are drawn to the window. I watch as the wet slides down the glass like a lover's hand. Carressing this way and glistening. My eyes squeeze shut and I try to close my mind to the vivid imagery. The sensations to recent to be forgotten. I hear the birds stirring. The sun just begins to streak through the sky, the rain, the murk, the open window. The morning's sounds scrape across my already frazzled nerves. I pull the pillow down over my head. Face into the mattress. The sounds are still loud in my ears. I bellow in outrage into the soft sheets of my bed. The rain pours down. Anger fills me. I am up and down the hall before my rational mind can take over. Down the stairs and through the kitchen to the door. To release. It's open and I am out. My skin exposed to nature's fury. Nature exposed to mine. As I stare up into the dawning day, as the rain intermingles with my tears, and as my mind races with memories, a thought sticks. My Grandmother once told me chickens drown in the rain. They look up into the sky with open mouths and die in the dirt, in the rain, in the early morning murk. I wonder if that could happen to me. Could I drown so easily? Oh, not in the rain, but in the dirt? The rain? The early morning murk? In fear?