It is a gloomy winter evening. The sun is not a fierce ball of heat in the sky. Instead, it is a battered splash of yellow in one corner. Besieged by the gray fog it is waiting for the next hour to carry its impotent rays away from our eyes.
It has been raining since noon. The heavy shower has turned into a specter of a drizzle. The drops that I hear are not raindrops but water falling from a collected pool in the terrace. They are falling at a constant pace with enough time between consecutive drops to make me aware of each drop's journey. I hear the beginning of a drop's flight as it detaches itself from its source. The timid whistle as it cuts through the air in an acceleration of exuberance. And the final splash when it shatters its existence to make the world aware of its past.