no longer chasing shadows. The land exhales

Rain has a way of reordering time. It slows the world without asking permission—softens the edges, blurs the boundaries between what’s inside and out. Each drop is a brief insistence that nothing stays still, not even stillness itself.

In the desert, rain feels almost ceremonial. The air, usually crisp with silence and dust, thickens into something you can feel on your skin before you see it. The first drops strike like the sound of fingertips drumming on glass—hesitant, then sure. Soon the pool stirs, the surface peppered with ripples that expand and collide, creating small constellations of movement. It’s not just water falling; it’s the return of memory.

There’s a humility in watching rain. The world stops performing. Colors dim into truth—muted blues, gray greens, pale browns—and light diffuses, no longer chasing shadows. The land exhales. Plants lift, soil drinks, and somewhere beneath it all, something small and hidden begins again.

To sit and watch is to feel time elongate. You hear your own breath line up with the rhythm of falling water. The noise in your head begins to dissolve, replaced by the steady percussion of renewal. Rain doesn’t announce transformation; it just performs it quietly, over and over, until the change feels natural, inevitable.

When it passes, what’s left is not absence, but clarity. The smell of wet stone, the shimmer of the last drops sliding down the umbrella, the faint echo of what just was. Rain never stays, but it leaves everything truer than before.

WE&P by: EZorrillaMc.