How would I describe Rain without all five senses?
Since rain is a product of God, or nature, or both,
depending on your standpoint,
you have to assume it is sensible.
Otherwise it wouldn’t be reasonable to have it.
In some belief systems.
When there hasn’t been any for a while.
I assume so.
Although what it is thinking or feeling when the sun dries it up, or the wind blows it away isn’t really in my thought system.
I’ll work on that for a while.
So, since we now have rain with all five senses,
what about without?
Past present and future.
And full of bits of everything that has gone before,
and will go on long after we are gone.
So what do I sense when contemplating rain?
Everything I can, have ever, and will ever,
see, hear, touch, taste, smell.
The entire world.
In a raindrop.
A microcosm of creation.
And the creator.
The smell of wet hay on a summer morning when the sudden rain caught the farmer on his tractor, and you, waiting for a late-running bus, unprepared,
The sound of tennis shoes squelching down a rain soaked road and sploshing through deep puddles.
The taste of wetness on the tongue as you, in your joy at reliving your childhood, and the geese in the barnyard, in their genetic programming, raise your eyes together to heaven and open your mouths in unison to receive the falling rain.
The aqua-planing feel of your hand on your bare arm as you try to slide off the heavy sheet of raindrops,
The joy at seeing the staid raising their umbrellas, and those too wet to care laughing with you as you revel in the elements.
Can you walk between raindrops?
Be part of them?
As they were,
And then move on?
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