Hail. That is the sound hail makes. The incessant bang, bang, bang, on the roof above. It's October though. Not nearly cold enough for snow or hail. Boom! The sky is suddenly as bright as the day, if only for a breath. No. It's just rain. The rain barraging against the roof, and windows, and doors pleading to be let in. The pitter-patter, drip-drop, can be heard somewhere in the house. Trees sway and moan and grieve lost limbs. Nature is a battleground on nights like this. The world at war with itself. Again the ground shakes and hills role and light is a dangerous thing. The world is amethyst and porcelain and crack! You taste pop rocks and carbonated soda and jump back to get away. Bang! It was inside this time. A chair falls and you remember where you are but the goosebumps have formed, your hair stands on end, and a chill goes through the room. You take a deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. The hail is stronger and faster and coming all around you and you expect that smell but you're not in the rain or the thunder or the lightning. It smells buttery, and thick, and, sour and the fridge it open and you don't know how that happened. Click. Suddenly you're not hungry anymore but the door closes and the fluorescent bulb is swallowed along with the food and it's all shapes and lines and imprints of things you know are there. Crunch! You jump and there is something on the window. There is something on the window. There is something on the window. Oh my god, something's on the window. And you run across the room and hit the lights and, oh god, what is it. And it's a leaf. It's 3 o'clock. You're in your house. The lights are on. It's just raining and a leaf blew into the window. You wonder what was so terrifying. You slink into a chair. The groves dig into your fingers and leave marks. Although maybe your fingers are the ones doing the digging. Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Nothing will ever be louder than your heart. Not even the rain. Frost envelopes your skin and shivering isn't enough. It's cold. Oh, it's so cold. Maybe the best thing to do is go back to bed. It will be over in the morning. Creak. The wood groans and lightning strikes again and in the hall, it's still just lines and shapes so you run and leap into bed where it's warm and quiet. The sun rises. Silk and cream flood the room and droplets dance on the window. Outside the smell is fresh and good and pure. There is a leaf on the window. A leaf on the window and racing droplets and gold in the sky. And suddenly the night before, the drums and flashes and hail are dew and autumn air and xanthic light through juniper leaves.