The Room Where I Write

A chill runs through my body as I breathe in the cool air around me.  I hear the fan blowing above me as it tosses the top few hairs on my head.  The breeze tickles my head and I instinctively pass my fingers through my hair.

My wandering eyes catch on to the tiny droplets of water left hanging on the window.  Each one so perfectly round; each one untouched and pure until a gust of wind molds them into long strands, tilting left and tilting right.

Tiny droplets of water hang onto the branches of the tree outside my window.  They cling to the thin limbs as they fight to hang on, but in the end they always end up on the cold, glistening street below.