Raindrops

Rain is always so hurried. It bursts out of the sky like the world is about to be engulfed by flames, like it must quench the earth’s thirst. It drips down windowpanes, where I used to follow drops with my finger, tracing the paths that they took to the edge. Before I had things to distract myself from the simple beauty of nature, I watched water rush down gutters and into storm drains, watched the skies open up and let forth the wrath of the gods. Now, I don’t.

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