Raindrops and birdsong (a short story)

Listening to the rhythm of the raindrops nudged me to see if the two buckets and the biggest bath towel were placed perfectly to save my carpet.
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Drip, drip.
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Caught by the bucket? I wasn’t sure, I flicked on the light and looked to the ceiling with sleepy eyes.
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1.20am. Drip, drip from the ceiling. The postponed building work couldn’t be helped. This is lockdown.
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Light off.
My heavy head in the feather pillow wouldn’t settle.
I text my son. ‘You awake?’ he replied. I asked if his room was dry. It was. I said I’m going to watch TV until it stops.
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The Crown, Netflix. Utterly astounding.  Gloomy in places but impactful. Lacrimosa played a haunting tune as the episode drew to a close. Mozart, the genius, made me smile as the strings struck and I remembered singing in the choir in 2019.
Prince Philip, Churchill, the great smog story.  Creeped me out enough to worry about going downstairs in the dark to put the kettle on without my phone and the dog.  The dog was in Jasmines room; I took the phone.
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The kettle is broken, as of yesterday. Travel kettle it is then, the tiny one I brought back from the apartment when the tenant moved in.
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3.35am and I made a deal with myself. Meditate and try to sleep, failure would lead me to get up and do some editing, rather than lay there thinking about editing or, something.
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3.45am the candles are lit and the office window leaks birdsong for the start of this blessed day.
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🖊🤍📖
No rain, no flowers 🌧 🌷