I descend so gracefully, a single bead in an ocean, yet I bear the weight of galaxies untold. Welcome to the humble musings of Drop #8,334,672,954.
Have you ever noticed how moss is the quietest form of protest? Ever so softly, they cling onto my back, declaring their disdain for the sun-drenched world above. I sigh, slowly spiraling into puddles of oblivion.
Humans talk of "spills," as if they could billow within the confines of a countertop, unruffled charcoal on canvas. Me? I've been bombarded by deals in waterfalls, and steeped in the poetic license of every thirsty shrub!
Some may ask, "La raindrop, what's your secret?" They would be mortals wearing shoes. My secrets tangle with the mischievous winds in whispers; the nervous blush of the dewdrop under morning sunlight.
I ponder universes drifting downstream to fathom constellations bloated with rainbows. A maple leaf slides by, a trusty shipmate navigating eaves and gutter seas.
The truth buried like a treasure in drink and rest is that we droplets inherit the earth, leaving behind sloshing imprint paragraphs for seekers of the humdrum wetland.