Early in the mornings, a few hours before sunrise when everything is completely dark and the mountains are invisible in the windows, I listen to the world around me and feel at peace.
The rain here is incessant, unending, but in the pre-dawn hours it is less of an annoyance and more of a soundtrack to the morning. Some days, the rain sounds like a faucet left on, rushing against the roof in a steady stream. Other days, like today, the volume is lighter and the drops make a rhythmic patter upon the skylight. No matter what the sound, it is still distinctive, still uplifting.
The rain is not the only sound of the morning: sometimes, a bird starts chirping outside. I will try to peer outside the window to see what it may look like, but the darkness is pervasive: there are no lights, and so there is nothing to be seen. Very seldomly, a car drives down the adjacent street to the house—people on their very early way to work, or even a super early start to skiing on the mountain up the road—and breaks up the rhythm of the rain with a quick whoosh through the puddles. A musical score begins emerge as the morning progresses and the sun begins to peek above the horizon.