There's something ineffably homey about a rainy day.
It makes me crave homemade soup and a comfy chair on the protected front porch that offers a front row seat for nature's drama.
I especially love the very beginnings of rain, its imminent threat. The world becomes hushed and calm. No one's outside but the birds. There are no lawn mowers or leaf blowers or any of the detritus of modern audial life.
It's not unlike a very minor illness which gives you leave to spend your time in sedentary pursuits like reading and introspection. It gives introverts an even playing field since even extroverts must be more introspective when the rains come.
I like that the dream-state rain begets, the sort of healing, disassociative state. I like the dark purply clouds, the rustling wind with the smell of water in the air and the first tiny droplets of rain. I like the way it makes you feel hungry for poetry and solitude. When it pours, there is nothing nicer than reading in the bookroom while the rain pelts the roof.