Rain drops plop most gently when they’re not supposed to be there at all. They know it’s nearly summer, they feel it, but they sometimes drift on over anyway to plip down from their high homes and reconnect with their roots. The sky births its young and they flee the nest.
Plipple plopple.
Far from torrential, they hang in the air waiting for their turn to descend and dripple dropple. How supple a raindrop must feel as it glides through the wind with gelatinous skin, flying fast towards the ground and rippling with calm assertion.
Rain is softer than tears.
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