Dancing Raindrops

t a p tip tap p l i n k the first drops come dancing across tin roofs, windowpanes, wide leaves, bare skin— tapping out their quiet language on everything we forgot to feel. the wind turns the sky into a drum and each raindrop a fingertip playing jazz on the glass of the world. they leap from gutters swirl in sidewalk puddles splash laughter on parked cars and pirouette off petals like ballerinas practicing joy. some fall straight, obedient to gravity but others—rebels— bounce, skip, twist, spin. they don’t fall. they dance. and every drop carries a secret rhythm, a soft choreography of chaos and calm— a memory of oceans, a kiss of cloud-breath, the sigh of sky. listen— not just with ears, but with skin, with soles of feet, with the space behind your eyes. the rain is not noise; it is message. not a storm; a ceremony. and when you step out into its music, don’t run. don’t hide. just lift your face, and dance. let the world drip drip drip away— and become the rhythm of rain.