Rain falls in torrents outside my window. There is light enough to see but the sun is well hidden behind the clouds. All colors are muted except for the bright gold of the forsythia flowers. Outside my window there is a bush gone wild, its branches falling to the ground, almost like weeping willow branches. Long and sweeping. The wet wind whips them about. If I were an artist, I might draw a woman amidst the branches, naked with rain pearling on her skin before running in rivulets to the earth. Red hair and gold branches obscure her face and her body except when the wind grows especially coarse and the shell pink of her nipples are revealed.