Enchanted Rain

It's uncomfortably warm. My mouth is dry. It was the end of a long, humid, intolerable, interminable day, and I wished for rain.

When it rains here, I focus on each individual irridescent incandescent droplet of cool, clear water. I listen to their song, hear the *plop!* of each quiet death on the grass.

I imagine what it must be like to be a raindrop; to be born from the lakes and seas, to be brought up by the deft hands of sugar-spun clouds (they must feel as soft as they look, to raindrops at least), to feel everyone and everything around you sharpen and augment with vicious intensity before the gentle release of rain, to be a part of that chaotic multitude of pitter-patter raindrops and lose yourself in the togetherness of it all. Is it too much to them, or just enough? Are they overwhelmed with the sheer number of their ranks? I wonder if we could count them if we only tried.

What is it like to be a part of that endless, timeless dance? How does it feel not to know how long you have before you hit the ground? Do raindrops know the cycle is endless, do they know when they fall to the lakes and rivers and ponds and fathoms-deep oceans that one day they'll be rain again? Is every storm, to them, their last?

Listen to the rain one day, and really HEAR it as I do, FEEL the thunder in your chest, stand spellbound as the sky attempts with suicidal valor to break itself once and for all, WATCH the lightening and thunder battle (or are they kissing? merely dancing?)