I am not a body. I am the rain, falling all over your house and in the deep fold of the distant hills. I cover the leaf, the roof, the field grasses and the shiny street. A billowing wind carries me through the swirling branches and drives me against your window. I strike and coalesce, fall and spill into the soil and the swallowing gutter, taking a wild ride to the sea. Later the sun may draw me up, but the clouds will lose me when they let down their burden in water again. I am not a body. You can sleep to the sound of my falling.