Late night or early morning, not able to sleep; listening to the sounds of the gathering storm.  The peaked ceiling in the bedroom reaches to meet the rain.  The first shower falls  heavy on the roof, slow at first, then building: peppering the stillness  around me.  This night, this morning, this experience:  this reminds me of why I fell in love with my Brookside bungalow.  In the upper story, pine-clad, never painted, with heavy air coming through the open bathroom window, I could be in a small cabin high in the mountains.  The storm lets loose; the house shakes; and I draw in the heady fragrance of the storm’s unleashing.  Nearly impossible to be unhappy, to be less than joyful, to lament, when the earth gives us this grand awakening.