It’s raining in Northern New Jersey, a cold, cold rain. I stood in it for a few moments when I returned from work/school. I’m a teacher. When I finally stepped inside, I sat down and wrote this.
The rain seemed colder beneath the old tree. The tree’s trunk, black and wet, radiated cold as a fire radiates heat, but I was told to stand beneath it and wait; therefore, I waited. The ground rose slowly before me, a field of wheat burden by the grey, cold day. Soon, the dragon would land it that field, drop from the sky like an angel or a demon; I did not know which. At least, I thought, then I would be warm.