The early hours

The early hours

I grasp my coffee cup and gaze out at the dark, dim lit street. Listening to the rain; hearing its song as it pitter patters off the drainpipes. Leant against the doorway, huddled in my robe I watch the fox as he dares to venture from the woods. Slyly but quickly he scurries around in hunt for food, we have become frequent friends him and I, through the lonely nights.
The wind blows fiercely through the bushes beside me and a light shines in the long off distance from the cottage across the fields. My eyes have grown heavy, the wind and the rain much colder now. I bid good night to my friend Mr Fox; close the door and scramble to my bed, where I lay listening to the song of the rain as it pitter patters off the drain pipes.