There is a drip, drip, upon my windowpane. Outside the trees moan as the wind brushes them aside. Speedily, speedily, she rushes along; she must make haste, but to what end? Passing over hill and valley, pond and knoll, to lull herself to sleep, then silently ruffle the blossoms of a cherry tree; no more threatening than a child’s breath.
The trees and their agony can be heard throughout the valley. Their cries from an unknown world shiver up their roots and extend to their very leaves and twigs, where the wind pulls their voices from them and the air is filled with their shrieks. Then for a moment there is silence while the wind gathers her strength, and the quiet melody of the raindrops is allowed its chance to sing.
Softly, quietly, beautifully they voice their song, pattering on fern and rock, path and roof. The gutter-water begins its drone as it channels its way along its travels, while the ever-present drops delicately chime a harmony. Each raindrop, completely singular, straight from heaven, where the Master bids them where to go. Perfectly beautiful spheres, a majestic touch of creation, something so innocent as they glide down the glass of the window that one could forget the harm they once wrought.
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