What a din the rain makes. What a racket, as it falls unabashedly over rooftops, cement and tin alike. Plunging, splashing, bouncing, rickety, rackety as though it would drown the world and us along with it.
The pigeons and the crows have found shelter under tin roofs and awnings, nooks and crannies, where ever they can spread their wings and thrill the raindrops off their bruised and soaked feathers, cooing and cawing their complaints at the ceaseless rain.
Only the humans tarry on. Under the futile shelter of their umbrellas and cars, trains and buses, shaking the raindrops, that always manage to seep in, negligently off their skin and their attire. Soaked or miraculously dry, life does not stop for a wee bit of rain. There are places to go, jobs to do. Rain, though ceaseless, is almost an after thought.
Except when you sit at a window and gaze at it in awe. Then it is an entity to be reckoned with as it sprays through the window, every now and then, cool and refreshing. A source of life and much day dreaming.