Summer rain is warm and yet refreshing, savory with the scents of salt and sand, of mountains and of oceans. The silver drops crackle as they fall on leaves so dry their emerald skin has faded into celadon with the heat. The colors of the land dissolve like dust into the rain along with hopscotch lines from sidewalk chalk erased by summer thunderstorms. The geese are restless, waiting, watching for the signs that tell them when the time has come to leave in autumn.
Autumn rain is melancholy and reflective, pungent with aromas of cinnamon and smoke from wood stoves. The silver drops stain the trunks of maple trees from brown to black and wash the red and yellow leaves until they gleam like the sequins on child’s costume on the night of Halloween. Rain drops ripple down the wrinkled skins of rotted pumpkins left behind at farm-stands already closed for winter.
Winter rain is harsh and bitter, sharp with the silence of the empty trees that birds have all abandoned and of December clouds, dark and bleak and heavy because they should be holding snow. The silver drops freeze on branches stripped raw by winter winds and on the skin of bright red berries growing by a stream frozen in time until the sun comes out to thaw it in the spring.
Spring rain is clean and sweet, smelling of earth and life and freshly-washed laundry hung out to dry in sunshine and then forgotten. The silver drops dye each blade of grass a deep green as bright as strands of plastic grass that line a child’s pastel-painted Easter basket. The wind is more refreshing and not as bitter as in winter, tinged with the promises of warmth and color from the crocuses and forsythia blooms, of shadows and of sunshine and of summer.
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