Ever drifted in a torrential downpour? I have. I’m not just any raindrop, mind you. My name’s Dewey, and I’ve got quite the humble saga here, etched in droplets.
Picture this: One moment, I’m lounging in a contemplative puddle, possibly reenacting Shakespeare with my fellow drops, and the next, *swoosh*, I’m airborne, sent sprawling through the atmosphere.
You might think the bristly tree branches below might offer sanctuary. Spoiler alert: they do not. Ever tried to cling to a branch while deciphering the technicalities of gravity? Not recommended. I’ve slid more times than I can count, often with other drops assuming we’re starting a conga line.
And yet, each fall is beautiful. Each leaf captures a taste of my adventure, territories to wet, wandering saplings in desperate need of hydration. Join me for a detailed account of my chaotic, yet theatrical descent.
The branches consistently offer sage advice though: “Water you doing, mate?” to which I often respond, “Just drenching my dreams!” Or at least that’s my monologue while plummeting.