Just as the sun was rising

Here we are with a few little poetic ramblings in prose (what are those called) about memories...

Summer Morning
It was chilly, for it was just morning, and already the windows were open. The windows and the door, that is, and through the screen door, you could see the sun slanting on the porch. Slanting across smooth brown treated wood, golden with early-morning grace. The dew sparkled on the grass, and the clear skies in the west promised a beautiful hot day. The cherry tree out front was green and it blew in a gentle breeze. The rose bushes were laden with their fruit--that is, their dew-sheathed flowers, so red, red as blood, redder, in fact. Robins and crows sang their regular duet, the whistle of robins perfectly timed with the hoarse caw, caw of crows.

Rainy Night
Dark shapes tossed wildly where trees used to be in the daytime. The madrona and the birch, a thick stocky tree and a slender graceful one, respectively, were now a waving black mass. The streetlight shone gold in the gloom, and it seemed dripping with gold, the rain, the prettiest thing you ever did see. The neighbor's top window went out, leaving the streetlights and a few miscellaneous headlights to shine through the gloom.

I'm in that sort of mood right now.
Saro