Gee, I'm glad it's raining.

Rain.

The streets glisten with it. It falls, gently; the soft pat each drop makes upon impact blending into a subtle cacophony that fills the senses of hearing and touch. On my jacket, I feel each individual hit as time balloons and expands until the drops no longer fall, they float. Gently, gently, they float, and I with them.

Life moves in slow motion as the moment lasts and lasts, drowning my cares in awe.

I turn, quickly as I can, yet slow, slow. I see an oak tree, old even by the standards of oak. It is vibrant with life, even in its age, its colours seeming to brighten the more I stare. The rain kisses the leaves, the bark, and each solitary drop, hitting, makes a basso rumble as sound slows, like everything else. Everything is still now, except my mind. It seems to race ever faster, practically shaking with the effort of recording, of taking in.

The oak tree is no longer just an oak tree. It is somehow me, now, and my body is strong. I am firm in the earth and my roots feed me, richly, from the soil. My branches reach for the sky and my leaves trade with the air. The rain is a blessing, and I am calm, filled with the satisfaction of being; satisfaction that does not fade, cannot fade.

I see everything around me in minute, precise detail. I see the park around me, lush and green with tended life. I see cars, parked and, on the streets, beginning to move again as the moment contracts. I see the streetlights and the buildings they illuminate. I see an old man on his side, lying on the sidewalk; a brown paper bag lying next to him, spilling brightly coloured vegetables. Carrots, lettuce, and radishes. A bag of frozen peas has burst, little green spheres rolling this way and that. Among them, on her knees is a young girl, no more than eleven years old, face twisted into a grimace of loss. The young girl reaches her hand out to the old man's face.

Somewhere very far away, so distant now, I seem to feel an urgent touch, but I see no one near me. It's not important. I am an oak tree, and though I am ancient, I need only to be. I am so, so happy to be.

Somewhere, still very far away, a voice whispers, "grandpa." For a moment the sorrow in the voice touches me, but it is only a moment, brief and fleeting. It passes and again I am a tree, and it is enough. It has always been enough.

The rain falls, but it will stop. When it is finished, I will see the sun.