Rain

There's something about the rain. Something that makes it both powerful and gentle, both beautiful and terrible. This something is a little indescribable, and a little mystical.

The drops begin coming down slowly, one at a time. Standing beneath a skylight, or behind the windshield of a parked car, the rain touches down right in front of you. Almost as if you're going to get wet -- but at the last minute the drops decide otherwise, bead up and roll away. And as the rain gets harder, the world outside changes. A film creeps over the trees and the sidewalks, repainting the world in muted greens and grays. The air becomes thick with falling drops, each one making a splash when it lands. The nooks and crannies in the ground which have already begun filling with water, crescendo until the rain runs through the street and into the sewers. There are sounds, too. The sound of cars driving by, sloshing the water that's been collecting by the side of the road. The sound of the drops pounding the rooftops. When the rain becomes torrential, it defines the outline of the wind, which carries sheets of water through the air.

But just as quickly as it comes, the rain leaves. It leaves the world a little cool, and wet, as if it's just woken up from a deep slumber. The trees are missing a few leaves, and the grass is flat. When the sun comes out, it shines all the brighter, refracting off the water left clinging to every surface.