Vacant

Just now, a mirage of sound  
Heard from the wall heater    
I never use.  
   
Rain landing from above,  
That's the only way I know    
As precious little visits where I live.  
   
I look out the front door    
And see the vortex of raindrops.  
Feel the chilled night air on my face.  
   
Inhale deeply that chill like arctic.  
Slowly, I absentmindedly    
Pull my threadbare robe around me.  
   
Easing back into my    
Slightly less cold apartment,  
Closing the door of drafts.  
   
By the time I sit back down    
Where I now write this,  
All is thick with stillness.  
   
This small gift that has drifted  
Out of earshot in predawn mists.  
How vacant the gesture makes me feel.