By Michael Kew
Rain quiets ambiance of change, of introspection, of memory. Rain is singular yet falls in many forms, angles, intensity, voracity, sound, speed, swooping in from gray blurs over the ocean, a hard fog of moisture, cyclical, a wall of wet from afar, drawing near, its origin thousands of miles out, in turbulent oceanic patterns, true wilderness where nothing above water but birds can thrive.
I have never understood people who say rain equals “bad weather.” There is no such thing as bad weather—only different kinds of weather. Drought? Water is everywhere. Twist your faucet. Take a shower. Flush your toilet. Wash your dishes. Your clothes. Your hands. Your car.
The water is there.
Where is the rain?
The rain is here.