A sound like water, beading up and falling, tap-tap-tapping fast enough that the noise becomes steady, gentle. That’s nice. It must be raining. You hope you remembered to put the bike under the porch.

It continues, and the static of noise seems to disappear under this attention. Hm, did it stop? Focus roams, searching for some other station to tune to, in order to simply turn back to this one, to test the sounds against each other. The zip of a bird, calling rhythmically, incessantly. Strange to have noticed the water before this sharp noise. This one bird calls and calls and calls. The answer, if there is one, can’t be heard. It flits closer, lands on the green branches just outside the window, rustles them clumsily. Hard to judge, who among us can guess how easy or difficult it might be to alight on a branch. It’s too close now though, it was much more pleasant when it was far off and the rain was the only thing at the window. No, no. Not rain. How could it be rain with this much sunlight glowing through the half-closed curtains? Enough sunlight to be worrisome, really. What time is it? Oh! Not rain,  it’s the fan. The old box fan jammed in the window. The wash of it pouring into ear canals all night long makes it unfamiliar somehow in the morning. Wind becomes as vital as water during those dark hours, air swirling around the dreamer and reminding them to breathe. Funny, it doesn’t really sound like rain at all now. More like an ocean wave rushing in but never breaking.

It can’t be put off any longer; the clock on the dresser must be acknowledged. Just a peek, one eye is enough. All that sunlight, pressing relentlessly upon eyelids, desperate for a way in, crowds at the first gap. The eye shuts and must try again. The second attempt reveals the room, still and murky, and the clock, the lighthouse on the distant rock, spells out a code: there is more time for sleep. Relief.

The bird is gone. Unclear when that happened. The cotton sheets feel impossibly soft, has anything ever felt this reassuring before? this delicious? The down pillow is squashed in a strange arrangement and must be sorted out, adjusted with minimal movement, before tender head can rest again. Has anything ever felt this good? Pajamas are twisted at the hems, but this is hardly noticeable amongst all of this perfection. The fan continues its steady thrum, and mind casts far out.

What will today contain? Work. Coffee. Dishes. Vacuuming. Is there laundry that needs to be done (when is there not?)? Is there time to do it? Wasn’t there someone waiting to hear back about something? Some response that’s been put off again and again? A new ache on the left side demands the body roll over, shift back onto the pillows, nestle down deeper beneath the duvet.

The sunlight is brighter on this side. More insistent. Both eyes open, squint briefly. The green branches crawling up the window make the room feel like an aquarium, seaweed against the blue, blue sky, light filtering through glass. The box fan deadens the sounds that try to climb through the windows, softening and distorting them, not unlike having a layer of water in place of the glass pane.  Even with the screens, the green branches have a way of pushing through as well, but they are clipped back again and again with the shears kept by the window ledge for this purpose.

What was that dream? The one that slipped away when the rain started? It would be so nice to slip back into it now, underwater and comfortable, but the details seem to have wandered off. Maybe dozing off will tempt them to come back…

A car starts in the driveway a few houses over. Rattling, groaning. The radio turns on, not loud, just a sort of hum in the background. A garbage truck follows these noises, the discordant stop-and-go screeching, the driver stomping on the gas and jamming on the brakes. Did you forget to put the recycling out? Yes!

Wait, no. No, you remembered this time. Last week, the same noise resulted in a launch from bed and a sprint to the driveway, pajamas and hair askew, eyes barely open. Today, this noise and this memory supply a thick layer of extra contentment to burrow down under. It’s slightly hot under it, though, so a foot needs to be kicked out into the cool air the fan provides.

The silently ticking clock is corroding the edges of this moment, though. The alarm is beginning to circle, a bird of prey above your peace. Is there any way out of work today? Can a planned thing be pushed back? Perhaps it’s better to stay late today; the extra hour of sleep is surely enough justification?

A slight wind shifts the branches outside. The sky has darkened quite a bit. Maybe it will rain after all. Just imagining the added sound of rain to this scene brings a wave of intense longing, to stay here a while longer, to let rain and wind keep you underneath the surface, to snub all responsibilities in favor of savoring this temporary comfort, this cotton and down and air and light.

WAIT.

It is Saturday.

A trill of sheer triumph. Your body wriggles in the nest of sheets and duvet and pillows, finding the perfect arrangement, before surrendering completely to the water.

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