The Rain

Mich Conwel stood on the back porch smoking a cigarette. He doesn’t think his wife knows he still smoke, she does, but she doesn’t say anything as long as the kids don’t know, they don’t know the children know. The sky was gray, the rain left a film of water over everything and left the air relentlessly humid. Mich hated humidity, he grew up in Arizona, he only moved to North Carolina because of his family. He still remembers when he realized he was no longer in the west; driving across the country he saw a sign: fifty miles to Arkansas. The dry desert air was replaced with the humidity of the south east.

Mich looks at the yard, a copper colored squirrel scampered across it, looking for a snack. A hawk came down landing on the squirrel. The squirrel let out an “eep “, the last thing the squirrel would ever say. The hawk took off with its prize. Mich watched the scene, the cigarette slowly burning down to his fingers. He let out a small scream, and dropping the cigarette. Mich looks down at the cigarette for a moment, stomps it out, then puts it in the trash.

Mich looked at the gray sky, it was going to rain again. He hated the rain.