Sshhhhh from rain, pitpitpit from hemlock, bloink from maple, and lastly popp, of falling alder water. Alder drops make slow music. It takes time for fine rain to traverse the scabrous rough surface of alder leaf. The drops aren't as big as maple drops, not enough to splash, but the popp ripples the surface and sends out concentric rings. I close my eyes and listen to the voices of the rain.
The reflecting surface of the pool is textured with their signatures, each one different in pace and resonance. Every drip it seems is changed by its relationship with life, whether it encounters moss or maple or fir bark or my hair. And we think of it as simple rain, as if it were one thing, as if we understood it. I think that moss knows rain better than we do, and so do maples. Maybe there is no such thing as rain; there are only raindrops, each with its own story.
Listening to rain, time disappears. If time is measured by the period between events, alder drip time is different from maple drip. This forest is textured with different kinds of time, as the surface of the pool is dimpled with different kinds of rain. Fir needles fall with the high-frequency hiss of rain, branches fall with the bloink of big drops, and trees fall with a rare but thunderous thud. Rare, unless you measure time like a river. And we think of it as simple time, as if it were one thing, as if we understand it. Maybe there is no such thing as time; there are only moments, each with its own story.
Witness to the Rain
Braiding Sweetgrass
Robin Wall Kimmerer
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