I wrote this several years ago in my early days of blogging and posted it on my Pen and Broom site - which is still active. I have updated and edited it some to place it on steemit, but for the most part, it is still mostly intact. All photos in this piece, I took using my smartphone.
Standing at the window, coffee in hand, looking dismally at the approaching rain. There won't be much for outdoor activity today, holiday or not. It's a day for reading, computer and writing, or if your motivation has slumped, a day in front of the telly.
The kittens want out. They slept in all day yesterday because of the rain and are restless. Since the rain hasn't yet started, I open the door to let them out, watching them climb over each other to be the first out the door, only to be trampled by the big dog that follows cause he has other, more pressing business outside. The old cat, who had gone out earlier just wants to come in. He knows what's coming. He's been out on the covered porch but the mosquitos know where he is and they like to dine on any blood bearing thing that happens to take shelter there. I contemplate bug spray for myself and reconsider, closing the screen door. I'll let the sound and the smells in but I won't be a party to sacrifice - especially my own. Not yet.
The sprinkling begins. It's hard to see the rain looking through a screen door, but if you screw up your eyes enough to make the screen go away and slow down your thinking, you can see the rain in the air. Very light at first, no wind, just a gentle light mist. I am instantly reminded of a week at camp where the only choices of activity were games, crafts, or simply staring out the windows wishing you were home staring out the window. Any place but camp in the rain. What an old memory. It all makes me a bit melancholy.
As I continue to watch out the screen, a curiosity develops. Robins begin to populate the driveway and the edges of the lawn. I've always thought robins were a bit on the eccentric side but this is sheer stupidity. The intensity of the rain is now, bigger than they are. However, after watching them strut and run and pick, I understand. The bugs and the worms have all come out. It's a renaissance feast. Lots of meat and the rain covered pebbles are easier to slide down. Would that be grits and sausage for breakfast? Plus, after your meal you can wash the mites out of your feathers without having to take a bath in a less than clean mud puddle. Not so stupid. On a queue, they take flight, heading for the trees and I know with certainty that even bigger rain will soon follow.
It starts to pour, coming down hard on the driveway, sending up dirt and mud and weighting down the branches of the bushes next to the house. I press my nose to the screen, smelling the freshness, hearing the musical notes of each drop hitting each different surface, sliding along like a bow on the strings of a viola. Now I want to stand out in the rain. Now I want to putz in the puddles. Now I want to make dams and rivulets and track the sedimentation plumes and swirls. Now I want to look into the rain and see the perfect raindrop.
The urge overcomes my better senses. I put on an old pair of tenners, grab my umbrella and step out the door. I adjust my umbrella, bringing it closer to the top of my head, moving it so the rain does not run off the top of the umbrella down the back of my shirt. My shoes have already begun to soak up a large amount of water. That can't be helped. The umbrella only protects so much and no more. The water has made it all the way inside of my shoes. They squish and they squeak but my feet are still warm. They're doing their job and on any quest you have to do some downs in order to have some ups.
I peek out of my dry cone of protection at the rain hitting the leaves of the nearby trees. Has one of them already found my perfect raindrop? Have they swallowed a part of it to feed on it's fruit? I look at the concentric waves as each drop hits the surface of a puddle.
Has my perfect raindrop ended it's life with hundreds of others at my feet and I failed to notice? Did it hit the rooftop, exploding into smaller droplets, loosing it's perfect identity? I see raindrops everywhere, held in suspension - on the soft white petal of a daisy, clinging to the gossamer strand of a spider's web. But nowhere can I find my raindrop. That perfect glowing bit of life, that wonder of the ages. As if in answer to my questions, a low rumble of thunder rolls across the sky. Distant, like the sound of an approaching train, still far far off. The sky begins to lighten, the rain is nearly done. I fear I am too late.
In desperation I throw down the umbrella, water and mud coating my pants. I run out from under the canopy of trees into the hardest of the rain, raising my arms to embrace it. I tilt back my head and ever so slowly stick out my tongue. One and only one drop lands there, sweet and pure and bursting in my mind with all the colors of the rainbow. It's then that I know, I have found the perfect raindrop.
