The sky darkens. The travelling warriors look up. They raise no hasty umbrellas. Instead, as the first droplets begin to plummet, they lift the corners of their sheltering hoods from their heads. They slow their hastening escape to the safety of a roof, and some even ease off their shoes. They drop their umbrellas into the crystalline puddles already forming. They pull their hands out of warm, nesting pockets, and stretch them out, fingers trembling, to receive the cold kisses of the rain.
And so they walk on, as if nothing in the world– even a longing for warm safety– is so urgent as to rush this journey through thought-inducing droplets. Drop by drop, their hair is dyed, and their coats are adorned with dark-stain medals of honor. They acutely feel the cold sting of each droplet; their nerves are not numbed by warmth, but warmed by the washing of rain.
They are souls chilled to the heart and the bone, with droplets fleeing down their noses, lashes, and the length of their unprotected arms, washing from their pores the deeply rooted fear of feeling.
They are adventurers who do more than hastily arrive beneath roofs. They are warriors whose eyes smile the moment charcoal masses unfurl over the sky; who square their shoulders and shrug their hoods off; who, when the clouds begin to weep, let the tears fall upon their skin and mingle with their own.
They are warriors who stroll in the rain…
and who sometimes… just sometimes, leap in the remaining puddles.