I've opened the window just a little bit, so that I can hear the rain. It's a very light rain, but it accumulates just enough as it runs down the roof, so that the drops make a steady drumbeat as they land on the ground.
How precious is the rain! Too scarce in this arid land, yet essential for life. It has been said that, in the 21st century, wars will be fought over water as they were, in the 20th century, over oil.
I remember reading, a long time ago, a story; we read it in my elementary school classroom. It was a story about a group of children living on Venus, where the sun only comes out once every seven years. How exciting it was when that one day came! (Who wrote that story? Ray Bradbury? I don't think so. Kurt Vonnegut? Perhaps. I don't remember.)
I feel like one of those children living in a land where just the opposite occurs, where the sun is relentless and the rainfall almost as rare. When it falls, I can't help but watch it, as the drops fall to the ground and soak into the dry soil, releasing scents that have been absent for months, or running down the sidewalks and into the streets.