Has there been some small cosmic shift, and the tide is finally receding? This is nothing the naked eye can observe just yet, but requires a thorough observation preformed in utter solitude broken only by my own inhalations.
I watch the drops end their heavenly descent and spread into concentric rings on the earth's crust.
Is this the birth-stage in the ever reincarnate life of hydrogen-dioxide? If I stand in it, turn my face up, let that perfect new-formed life roll down my skin, will I absorb that rebirth, that fresh beginning, osmosically?
I hold my arm out, until the muscles along my shoulder twitch and shake. The edges of my sleeve, pushed high, darkens with saturation as I break the first rule of wilderness survival and give into the rain. I watch the droplets gather into generous pools between the hard tendons of my knuckles. I watch the water rush deep rivers along the story-telling lines of my palm. I watch my dry, tired skin drink deep; small wrinkles filling up, taunt lines plumping, a glow spreading from fingertip to fingertip, spilling into the broad heel of my hand, bottlenecking into my wrist, flowing up my arm ever heart-ward.