On the metal roof of the van in which I live, the dance begins. The solitary tap dance of a single drop gathers momentum as its companions are called forth to perform. In dis-gust, the wind blows those tiny dancers aside, to drip down the side of the van, as if to conclude the rain dance. But the misty cloud of falling water that followed and had been waiting in the limbs of trees, gathering the strength of the storm, becomes a grand orchestra whose beat thumps and jumps, pumps and dumps down in its thicker tones, baritone plops and bass-string pops. For a time, it plays a more harried, almost frantic, beat as it pounds down, selfishly obliterating all other sounds … before it’s silenced by the sun.
Whispers of rain came as
Tinkles of sprinkles
Dancing like galloping ants
Rustling green foliage
Musical stanzas
Orchestral liquid movement
Ghosting petrichor
Thunderheads roiling
Shadowy billows retreat
Memory puddles.
I loved your style of writing this post which seems to be dancing in words, like rain.
Ah, thank you very much. It’s very much what I feel is happening with the rain.