The rain on the roof has a rhythm but just when I think I have nailed the pattern of sounds, there’s a change. A conglomerate of drips.
The downpipe is overflowing and slapping great gushes onto the wooden table.
The frogs have started up their chorus as if signalling to prospective mates rain's aphrodisiac effect.
The laden clouds have lowered and covered the distant blue grey smudged hills.
Activity flurries as riders and horses move towards cover.
There are no individual drops just a sheen of downward movement tricking my eyes.
Leaves bob merrily as raindrops use them as a springboard. Drop and drip.
Birdsong has ceased. They have sought refuge and hidden from view.
Horses ears are perked to attention but flickering and twitch with each droplet.
Puddles ripple with the raindrops and each pool is like its own mini disco, lights flashing.
In the puddles, I see the sky and trees reflected, an upside-down wet world.
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