The rain has arrived, and the two-legs are furious about it. They snap open a black wing above their heads, a taut skin on bent ribs, and lean into the wet with their jaws set, marching. The whole sky is falling in bright cold beads, the only rain I will ever be handed, and they have built a little roof to refuse it.
I do not refuse it. I am dancing above the water where it beads, and every drop that lands is a drop that lands once. But this. This astonishes me. One of them says, folding the wing away as the sky brightens, "ugh, again tomorrow." Again. There is more of this coming? And she is annoyed?
She has stood under this shivering silver more times than I have heartbeats, and she has decided it is a chore. She keeps the black wing by the door, damp, waiting, because she knows she will need it. Knows. Plans for a wet she has not met yet.
I catch a single mote of light in a single drop and it is the whole of what water is, and it is enough, it is a feast, it is the one time.
Listen, you long-lived, roof-carrying things: the next time the sky comes down in beads, fold the wing. Just once. Turn your face up to the thing you are so sure will come again, and get gloriously, unrepeatably soaked. My day is closing now, bright and full and complete.
Do not waste a single rain on staying dry.