is like rain in Oregon. You wake up every
morning and there it is. It cups your house
in its liquid hands and fills your gutters to
overflowing. It makes green things grow tall
and lush, rivers run deep and invincible. On
sunny days it seeps up through petals and pine
needles, roots and aqueducts. Other days, it
makes mud too thick for walking, and you
cannot leave the house. You pace the house,
restless and lonely. Then you smell its perfume
in a dry, empty room and part the curtains,
watch it finger the window with long,
slow rivulets.

Tiffany Lee Brown, from A Compendium of Miniatures