The rain comes

It rains everyday-- here in Battambang.

Its raining. Fire trees are forgotten on burning asphalt. The smell of stain on open barks, the narra trees and staid planks wound the evenings when there were no more fence to breach. The taste of the first drop of rain when eagerly awaited are missed. Now it comes-- earlier than summer, no sooner than lazy afternoons, while still daydreaming of the rain.

So the rain comes.
Its raining, again.