It's raining. There's thunder in the distances. Dancing thunder, the kind that calls you out to play. It's shouting, "Come join me or you'll be sorry."
"Sorry?" I ask.
The thunder stops. The rain rattles against the ground, expands. It's knocking.
"She didn't mean, 'sorry'," says the rain. "She meant, souring. You'll be soaring."
There's a new shot of thunder, like a shot from a pistol.
"Why are you listening to us now, after all these years?" The Pistol Thunder ask, as it's voice fades away into nothingness, only to return closer, more embolden: "I asked you a question."
"I'm thinking," I answer. "It is all too much to take in. I never knew rain could talk."
"We've always been here," a distant voice says. "You've just never listened."
"That's not true," I challenge. "I've always loved the rain."
"Ha," says a stream of rain running down my gutters. "Since when have you loved?"
"That's not fair," comes a louder voice, followed by a more distant, "He's only human, we're rain. Leave him alone."
And the rain continues to speak to me. And I continue to listen.
We are the same as plants, as trees, as other people, as the rain that falls. We consist of that which is around us, we are the same as everything.