In the fall, shuttered, sheltered from the coming cold, the old, white farm-house buried in the marigolds, Field listened.

Swivel, went his ears. Swivel!

Quietly, blankly, he listened to that rain. The rain that relentlessly, ferociously patter-pat-patted on the black-shingled roof, and that ran, in clear, swerving trickles (more like rivers), down the windowpanes. Beating to a liquid drum, a grey and weathered, rhythmic call, each droplet of water seeming to cry, ‘I remember when I was part of the ocean. I remember being part of an iceberg. I remember being great.'

This was that helpless, caged ‘nose-against-the-window' wistfulness, the stuck-in-place reflection.

This was mid-autumn, when the Lord's creation was winding down for hibernation, for rest. Soon, the icy winds, and the snow. Maybe weeks away. Maybe early, maybe late. Maybe the icicles would form like stalactites on the edges of the roof.

But it would be then, in that weather, when they would find out their true mettle. When all those storms flew down from Mackinaw, or wherever it was storms came from nowadays. Des Moines. Terre Haute, more likely. No, too far south. But it didn't matter from where and whence the fiercer elements came. Which towns they passed through on the way to here.

For it was simply that, then, they would be tested most. It was about endurance. Survival. About reflection. About preparing to be born again.

Some winters were harder than others. Some winters, Field would go out with his camera, and take pictures of sled-tracks, and trees with empty arms. Wishing, instead, for branches of Easter. But knowing each season held its own specialness. A beauty. Oh, nature's fierce variety! Oh, seasonal, shifting symphony!

Knowing this had to be. And that he was richer for it. Knowing patience.

But how hard would this winter be?

All the wooly worms Field had found had been shades of darker brown. Darker brown wooly worms meant a bad winter. And the orange/yellow ones meant an easy one, so ... if one went by wooly worms, one should be worried.

Were the wooly worms ever wrong?

Were they God's special, little forecasters?

Akira liked the wooly worms. She would see them and go all bright, going, "Chittery!" More so, even, when Field would pick them up. And allow them to scrunch-thrust, scrunch-crawl from his paw to her paw (so, so tiny, her paw), and the feel of those countless legs and the segmented moving, and the little innocent creature crawling all over her fingers, wondering where it was ...

... that was innocence. That was life.

Field sighed.

Adelaide, foot-paws bare, padded slowly into the room, tossing a few pieces of paper. A few envelopes. All of which scattered, fluttered through the dust motes in the air and to the carpet. In various spots around the coffee table. And she, finally, sank onto the cushions of the couch. Nearer to her mouse. Letting out a breath.

Field turned his head. Biting his lip. And whiskers twitching.

The pink-furred bat, with eyes closed, remarked, "You wouldn't think they'd charge you a wing and a leg to give birth ... they might as well bill you for living. Oh, wait, they DO," she corrected, smiling wearily. But sighing again, all the same.

"Still more hospital bills?"

A tiny nod. And she opened her eyes. "I'll be glad when we get those paid off." She gave him a weak smile, and then leaned her head on his shoulder. And then closed her eyes yet again. She was tired. Maybe because of the rain. Maybe because of these financial pressures (hospital bills, after all, weren't the only bills they were faced with). Maybe this, and maybe that. Being a mother, certainly. Constant care. She had to care for two souls now: her husband and her daughter. And, maybe, just maybe, would that damn rain just STOP? Just for a moment? Just for now? How many days had it been raining, now? Two? And the forecast for tomorrow?

Rain.

"Rain, rain," she whispered, trailing.

And Field picked up with a wispy, "Go away. Come again another day."

And the bat, pink eyes open, continued with the next line. Though, for her own purposes, she ‘edited' a few words. "Twitching Field wants to play. In the meadow," she declared, "by the hay."

Giggle-squeak! Whiskers waggling.

"Well, don't you?" she pressed. Nosing him. Nosing! "You're a farm-mouse. You and your hay-playin' ... "

"So?"

"So, I like that," she said, eying him hungrily. "I like rural. I like rustic. There's more ... nature," she whispered, "in ya. You're not all wrapped in plastic and smellin' of coffee like them fancy city-furs."

"Mm." Another giggle-squeak, and a smile. "Mm." His thin tail snaking softly behind him, between his back and the couch cushions, the tip twitching in the air. "You're just as rustic as me, Mrs. Mouse."

"Mrs. Mouse," she repeated, mulling over that. Having taken, legally, that last name upon marrying him. "Adelaide Mouse." A giggle. And then more giggles, and she laughed, and ...

" ... what? Hmm?" he wondered.

She calmed herself. "That would make our initials," she said, "first and last initials: AM, for me, and FM, for you. So, I figure," she said, starting to chitter again, "between the both of us, we got the WHOLE radio dial covered."

Squeak! "Never thought about that," he admitted, smiling widely. Whiskers doing a twitch.

"Mm." The bat calmed, nodding lightly. And nosing him. "Oh ... " More nosing. Gentle, aimless nosing.

"Hey, I do the nosing," he reminded. And he nosed her, in return.

She nosed MORE.

Until they were nose-to-nose. Until they were both a little bit flushed. Their hearts beating a little bit faster. Until they were breathing of each other. So closely, so directly. An unfiltered air of attachment, of knowing, of growing together in this.

The air of their relationship.

"Hey," he weakly objected with a quiet, bright tone.

"Nosing's entered the public domain, darling," she explained. "Or didn't you know?"

"What?" he said, with mock-surprise. "Mouses don't have SOLE copyright of nosing?"

"No." A deep breath. And she was the first to break the nose-contact. "Mm. No," she whispered. And, stopping for a moment, she closed her eyes and thought. And said, "Now, I lost track. Or my train of thought, rather."

"You lost a train of thought? Mm ... a train of thoughts," Field waxed, "barreling down the tracks. Runaway train, runaway ... "

She gave him a playful shove. "Field ... " A pause. "No, but I did. I lost it."

"Of what?" A confused blink. "What were you thinking about?" He tried to feel her mind (with his limited abilities ... which were, really, anchored in HER abilities).

"We were reciting that rhyme," she reminded. "The nursery rhyme we were doing. ‘Rain, rain, go away ... ' ... "

"Oh. Right. Um ... the, uh, next line," Field said, thinking, trying to re-focus himself. His features scrunched. His whiskers twitched, and his nose sniffed, and ...

"Rain, rain," she picked up, snuggling into him on the blue couch, getting it before he did, "go to Spain. Never show your muzzle again!" Her voice was picking up energy. Her expressions picking up joy. Her swept-back, angular ears at rest, and her winged arms relaxed. Her short, rudder-like tail (much shorter than his tail, but thicker) unseen between her and the couch. As she glanced at the window, as if speaking, directly, to the rain itself. As if making sure the wetness heard her. And heeded her.

And, "Rain, rain, pour down, but not a drop on OUR town."

"Rain on the green grass," Adelaide finished, paws in he air, slightly moving (as if conducting the words out of her memory), "and rain on the tree. And rain on the housetop," she whispered, eyes flickering to Field's.

"But not on me," was his airy, wispy whisper.

"Not on me," was her echo (and agreement). To which she nodded lightly. And moving her pink eyes to his blue-greys, she let out a deep breath. Breasts rising and falling. "Think I worked up a thirst, you know, reciting that."

"I didn't even know that I knew the words," the mouse joked.

"Neither did I." A smile. And she sank, loosely, into the cushions. Against him. And stared at the crumbling bricks of the fireplace. Where the jet-black corn stove was. "Whenever I tell others, you know, that our house is heated by a corn stove," she said, and turning her head to Field's. "They give me funny looks." A smile.

"Do they, now?" A soft stroking of her fur.

"Mm-hmm." A bit of a yawn. "Mm. Like they've never heard of corn stoves. Who hasn't heard of corn stoves?"

"We're ahead of the curve," was the mouse's declaration. He puffed his chest out for show.

Chitter!

And simultaneous sighs. A him-sigh, and a her-sigh, and two pairs of shutting eyes.

And breathing.

And listening to that rain.

Oh, patter-patter-pat! Go away, patter-pat! Go away. Go away permanently. Go and rain on Germany. Or go to St. Lucia, and never come back, never again!

But the rain was needed.

If it truly did run away, and if it never came back, they'd all be dry and parched, and wishing for the wet.

No, it wasn't that anyone minded the rain. It was that, sometimes, it stayed too long. And plagued with everyone with damp. But ...

"Send some rain," Adelaide whispered. Remembering a hymn. Part of a hymn. "Would you send a cloud, thunder long and loud. Let the sky grow black, and send some mercy down," she whispered. "Surely, You can see we are thirsty ... and afraid."

Field listened. A little shiver down his spine.

"But maybe not," Adelaide whispered, eyes closed, voice reverent. "Not today. Maybe You'll provide in other ways. And if that's the case ... " A breath. A soft breath. " ... we'll give thanks to You, with gratitude." A pause. "For lessons learned in how to thirst for You."

Field swallowed, eyes closed reverently.

And she kept going, as if making a prayer out of it. "Daily bread. Dear Jesus, give us daily bread ... bless our bodies. Keep our children fed," she whispered. "Oh, the differences that often are between ... " Her voice so quiet. So pretty. She had such a pretty voice. " ... between," she said, breathing, "everything we want." A swallow. "And what we really need." And a final, "Oh, that we are blessed beyond what we could ever dream. Thank you."

"Amen," Field whispered, breathing deeply. Fingers delicately in her fur.

She breathed silently.

And they listened to the rain for a bit more. A bit more. How it hit the window. How it soaked the door. How it, seemingly, was raising the standard for any rainbow that was to come after it.

Rainbows. When was the last time they'd seen a rainbow ... or even LOOKED for one? Those arced, God-given promises designed into the physics of the sky?

Adelaide stretched a bit, bending her knees further, to bring her legs up onto the cushions of the couch. To bring her bare foot-paws up. To lean further against her husband, and his honey-tan fur. And his twitching, heart-beating warmth. And his ‘still-after-everything' shyness.

"Field ... "

"Yeah?" he whispered tenderly, his paw on the nape of her neck. And a paw on her arm, and paws moving. Roving. Feeling her. Her pulse. Just allowing fingers to part and feel her fur. Carnation-pink, cotton candy fur. The scent and sweetness of her. Enough to bury any worry deep.

"I was thinking," she said quietly, "about Akira. When she grows up."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," was the nodding response. Her head rubbing against him (with the nodding motion). "Too early to say, I know." Pause. "But she will, you know?"

"I know," he admitted.

"I don't want her to feel the kind of pains that we did. I don't want her to ever have to struggle. To make the mistakes everyone makes, even when they're warned and drilled to avoid them. The pitfalls of youth. And I don't want anyone to ever shoot down her dreams, or take stabs at her faith. I don't ever want her to have to cry herself to sleep at night."

Field was quiet. Knowing how that felt. And knowing his mate knew, too, the feeling. Most everyone probably did, didn't they?

"But I know it'll happen. All of that. Blood and tears, and flooding. Sorrow. I know we can't put her in a bubble." A pause. "It scares me," she admitted. "That we're gonna spend years raising her, shaping her, protecting her with all our energy, and then she'll just open her wings and fly away. And what if she never wants to come back? What if she never ... appreciates ... " The bat's voice broke, just a tiny bit, saying this. "What if ... " She trailed. And swallowed. And closed her eyes.

Field's paws massaging her. Running, lightly, beneath her shirt. Blunted claws scratching at her belly. Whispering, in his tiny, mousey way, "I don't think we'll lose her to whims. She'll not disappear. She'll always be our daughter."

"I know how young furs can be," was all the bat said.

Field nodded quietly. He knew, too.

"I just wish I could be sure. Field ... " Her eyes watering, and she went quiet again, and she slowly shook her head. And blinked repeatedly. "That I ... to keep her ... " The tears were evident now.

"It's okay," he whispered, stroking her. Own eyes watering. He cleared his throat, continuing to soothe her with his paws.

"I'm thinking way too far ahead." She wiped her eyes, and stabilized her breathing.

"I don't blame you," Field told her. And, after a pause, "I think about it, too. Things like that. I think too much ... "

" ... and it keeps me up at night, sometimes," she accused, jabbing him playfully.

An equally playful squeak!

And quiet.

And rain!

Pat-pat-tapper-tap!

Tip-tip-tap!

"Adelaide ... "

"Yeah?" Her head, now, was on his lap. She's slid further to a sprawling lay-down. On the cushions, and on him.

"Do I have an accent?"

A blink, looking directly up at him. "An accent?"

"Yeah, like, my voice?"

"An accent. Well ... well, everyone does. We just don't notice our own. I mean, I'm same as you, speech-wise. Well ... mostly," she corrected.

"I know, but, like, I was just thinking about it." A pause. "I don't know why," he admitted.

A smile.

"I don't know why I think about half the things I do," was his admittance.

A wider smile. "Well, that's part of the fun." A pause. Asking, "You know those trees? Those puzzle trees?"

"Monkey puzzle trees?"

"Yeah." A slight nod, and a swallow, and a smile of, "Well, if YOU were a tree, you'd be like a MOUSEY puzzle tree."

"A mousey puzzle tree?" he repeated. "How does that work?"

"Well, cause you'd be unique. Puzzle trees are like puzzles. You can watch them for hours, and never get tired of staring. All those whorls of stiff, spreading branches and heavy, overlapping, spiny-pointed leaves, and ... " She had to pause to take a breath! And an eventual, reluctant, "I don't know. It just sounded fun to say: mousey puzzle tree."

A giggle-squeak, and a small sound. And, "I think we're both being silly."

"Better than both being depressed," she reasoned. "I mean, we gotta beat the rain, right?" Her eyes flickered to the windows. "It wishes it could get in," she whispered. "Look how the drops cling to the glass, like claws, you know, scraping down curtains. Like tearing up old curtains." A pause. "We really do need new curtains," she said seriously.

"We need a lot of new things," was his quiet response. "A new car, a new shower-head, new silverware, new this, new that."

"They never tell you about that, do they? When you're growing up? That you gotta labor daily just to have spoons and forks."

A soft, tired smile. "And toothpaste."

A giggle. "Mm. And shampoo."

"Mm." A nod. "We, uh, ran out of mine."

"Already? How much you using?"

"I don't use that much!" he defended. "Honestly. I use less than you do," he assured. "Your bottle's bigger."

"Well, my shampoo is for colored fur. Yours is for brown."

"I'm not brown. I'm ... "

" ... honey-tan. That's a kind of brown."

"It's not brown. Honey-tan isn't ... "

" ... a good enough reason to go all the way to the store. I mean, what with gas, and time, and ... the nearest store is, like, twelve miles away. You sure you don't have any left?"

"Maybe a few squirts."

"Well, use it sparingly."

"My fur's very delicate."

"Field, furs survived for thousands of years without shampoo. I think your pelt can last a day or two." A smile.

And he playfully stuck his tongue out at her.

She tuck hers out, too, in response. "Mm!"

A giggle-squeak. And a sigh, and he sunk further into the cushions.

And she sank with him.

They were quiet for a minute or so, and ...

" ... did the light just go off in the kitchen?" Adelaide whispered, blinking. She'd left it on. But, now, looking, it was off.

Field, blinking, nodded. "Yeah."

A sigh. "Oh, my gosh." She closed her eyes. "Light-bulbs. We need more light-bulbs, too. We got some in the closet?"

"Uh ... I think." His ears swivelled at the rain. Listening, listening. And telling Adelaide, with a slight nod, "I'm sure we do."

She breathed through her nose. "Okay." A momentary pause. "Rain."

"Mm?"

"Rain. Just ... rain. It must be raining all over the world," she said, with a weight to her voice. And, more thoughtfully, "But, really, the rain that's raining here has rained elsewhere. At one time or another. Right?"

A quiet nod.

"So, this rain could've rained on the other side of the county, the state, the country, the world. Who knows where this rain has been? The waters that are washing us, and the water we drink, even, from the well," she whispered. "Where's it all been? How much older is the water," she asked, "than we, ourselves, are?"

"I never really thought about it," was Field's eventual response, after a brief pause.

A bit of a nod. "Neither have I." A pause. "Don't know why I'm thinking about it now." Another pause, and she reached her feelers out to baby Akira. "She's dreaming," was the happy, contended whisper.

"Is she?" Field asked, hopefully. Hopeful for his daughter. That she may, indeed, dream. That she may be at peace. That she may know comfort and safety.

"Mm-hmm." A pause. "Mm. Today's Friday, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we can go to Sheridan in the morning, to the bank. Cash our checks, and ... you know, go to Westfield, or something ... "

"Would rather go to Lebanon ... "

" ... to the store. Lebanon, then, to the store. So, we'll do that tomorrow. It's supposed to rain then, too."

A little, mousey nod.

A sigh.

"You okay?"

"She's gonna be hungry when she wakes up."

"You tired? You need to nap?"

"I don't wanna nap," Adelaide assured, snuggling closer to the mouse. Almost possessively. "I wanna ramble incoherently," she said poetically. "While held hostage by the rain."

The mouse closed his eyes. And let out a delicate sigh at her words. At the imagery.

"Akira's baptism is Sunday."

"I know."

"I think mom's gonna give me a dress," Adelaide said, "that I used to have, myself, when I was little. So, we can swing by my parents' house after the shopping, and ... stuff," she said, trailing.

Field nodded, stroking his wife's fur.

Drip-a-drip-a-drip!

Patter-pat!

Rain!

"Cheeky rain," the bat whispered. "Go away," she whispered to it.

"I don't think it's listening," was the mouse's response.

"Mm."

"Maybe we should grab the umbrella and go out there," he teased. "And duel with the rain."

"Mm. That would require getting up off the couch," she reasoned, "and getting up off YOU, and I have no plans," she said, "of doing so."

A giggle-squeak, and a nod. "Mm." He had no objections to that.

So, on the couch they stayed.

Both sinking.

Both lounging.

Both speaking in soft, hushed tones. Hearing each other's voices. The distinct tones. The cadence of each.

Voices.

"No, but you know, like, I asked about accents. Dialects. Cause I notice I say some words different."

"Are you still on about that?" she asked, smiling. "Didn't we trail off on that, like, a day ago?"

He ignored her, continuing, "Like, I call them ‘crowns'," Field said, "not ‘crayons.' I say ‘carmel' instead of ‘caramel'."

"Well, those are too specific," she reasoned. "Dialect is a bit broader. It affects all words."

"We're both average-sounding, I guess," was his final reasoning. "Generic accents."

"Speech-wise, maybe, but accents aren't confined to speech."

"No?"

"No, if an accent is an emphasis, then ... there's the accent of you gait, and your body language. And," she said, trailing, and blowing out a puff of air. "I don't know. I really don't know how to hold a conversation about dialects and mousey puzzle trees and whatever else." A sigh, and she closed her eyes. "Those bills are still on the floor, right? The carpet didn't eat them?"

"They're still there," Field whispered.

"Damn."

"Hoping for the carpet-eating, then?"

"Yeah. Carpet-eating, or, hey, maybe we SHOULD let in the rain. ‘Oh, I'm sorry, the rain ate our bills.' Think they'd buy that?"

"I think we'd end up buying ourselves bigger bills," Field said wisely.

"Mm. You're being too rational." She poked him.

A squeak, and a smile, and, "Am not. I'm NEVER rational."

"Something to brag about," Adelaide said, grinning.

And a pause. And, "You ... bat, you."

Chitter! High-pitched sounds, reminiscent of her ‘echo-bursts.' She had that ability.

And, from him, another giggle-squeak, a cute, light sound, and all the squirming mousey motions that came with it.

"Mm ... "

"Oh, it's such a gloomy day." Eyes, again, fixated on the window. "It's definitely not California here. Or Florida."

"Thank goodness," was Field's response.

Chitter. And a giggling, "Yeah ... you're right about that. Look, if I EVER suggest we go to either of those places, nibble me, okay? Just nibble me."

"I already do," he whispered cheekily.

"Well, nibble me HARDER." A chitter. "Mm." A pause. "You know, we haven't had that many tornadoes this year."

A quiet nod.

"I remember, you know, last February. And that time in April, I think. You know," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, "how the wind just came, and the sky got coal-black, angry like an anvil. And just huffed and puffed and tried to blow us all away."

"I don't like storms," Field whispered.

She looked to him. "I know," she whispered, and her paw reached for his. "Come on. Paw. Paw," she instructed.

"Trying to train me?" A smile, looking down at her. Her head still on his lap.

"Darling, I trained you a long time ago."

A giggle-squeak, leaning his head back! Beaming. And looking back down at her. "You did, did you?"

"Paw," was all she said, showing her white, grinning fangs. Grinning.

And he gave her a mock-reluctant squint, and gave her his paw. His paw in her paw, and her paw squeezing, and ...

... patter-pat-a-patter!

The bat closed her eyes. "Oh," she breathed, exhaling. Breasts falling. And inhaling, they rose, and, "I know you're afraid of storms. You get all high-wired when the sky turns dark. Zipping from room to room, looking out one window. Pausing. Going to another. Going back to the first window. Turning on the radio. Turning it off. Turning it back on again, only to go to the television instead."

"Mm," was Field's response.

"I'm just saying that I know. I'm not teasing you," she told him honestly. "And it's not silly."

"To have fears?"

A nod. "Fears aren't silly. We all have them." A pause. "You know mine, and I know yours," she said. They knew everything. Their link, telepathic, physical, emotional. They'd been so deeply exposed to each other. So deeply, richly exposed.

Field breathed.

And she did, too. Softly, quietly, eyes closing for a bit. And then opening for a bit longer. "Rainy off-days," she whispered, "sprawled on the couch. Lights off. Way too early for supper, and already past lunch. Baby asleep in the crib in the other room."

He looked down at her. Ears perked. Listening, and swiveling like little, fleshy dishes.

"I guess we should be jumping and drooling and squeaking all over each other, huh?" A tired, little grin. "Shouldn't we be a writhing, fur-matted, pillow-sinking tangle right now?"

A giggle-squeak, and a little shrug. "I guess." His heart picked up its pace. By a few beats, and a few beats more.

"Mm." She closed her eyes. Cleared her throat, and opened them. "Then why are we just laying here talking about each and everything that happens to float into our heads?"

"Cause, sometimes, we just gotta." A pause. A deep breath. "Cause we're hopeless." A smile at that.

A squeeze of his paw. "Maybe just in the tiniest ways," she said. "I don't think we're that far gone."

"Mm ... "

"Birds is birds. Fish is fish. And furs is furs," Adelaide said, as if egging him on.

"And bats is bats, and mouses is mouses," he added, for good measure.

"Mouses," she whispered, her breath warm, "is mouses." A breath. Asking of her husband, "So, that being so, do I need to ask you again ... as to what we'd like to do?"

"No, ma'am," he whispered, shaking his head lightly. Whiskers twitching with a picked-up pace, and his mousey motions showing, now, his desire. His need for her. The pulsing vitality of her touch. Just the THOUGHT, even, of her touch.

"And there's no rule," she confided, "saying we can't do it on the couch." She met his eyes. She didn't feel like getting up and moving to the bedroom.

He met her eyes, in turn.

She grinned first, raising her brow. "Mind you, if someone comes to the front door in the next thirty minutes ... we'll be in a fit of blushing, but, uh ... with all this rain, who's gonna be at our door? Mm?"

A flush, and a coy, little nod. A smile and a breath, and, "The rain will. Won't it watch us? Won't it start to boil and evaporate from what it sees?"

"Think we'll make some steam?" she asked, shifting a bit, further back. Fully to her back on the cushions of the couch. Fully inviting him, with a pulling of her winged arms, to slink atop of her. Though they'd have to tug off all that clothing first, and ...

Field was already slowly peeling off his own shirt. And letting it fall aside, and ... " ... I think so, yes," he told her, eyes sparking. Love, in all forms, emotional, mental, physical. The kind of safety that never got old, and, oh, the soul-perfect shelter for any threat of coming cold.

And mouse and bat still heard that patter-patter-pat. But it was, now, the beating of hearts (instead of rain).