It’s wonderful, one of the best of sounds. Soft, the sound of gentle movement up, up around the treetops. But there’s a rhythm to it. Not pitter patter. Maybe pat, pit, pat. But way more subtle than that, and quicker than pat, pit, pat.
I guess by this time of year the weathered leaves near the top of the canopy are dry and leathery. And strong. Strong enough to hold onto raindrops for a minute or two. And let you listen, while the air down below, where you stand, surrounded by trees, is quiet. Insulated and quiet. The kind of quiet we hear in a room with heavy drapes and thick carpet.
The pit-pats are soft enough the subconscious eventually has to tap you on the shoulder, and say, what is that? Wind? Rain? Yes, rain. And if you like, you can stand still. Or you can saunter along on your way. And listen. For as long as it lasts, you can listen. As long as the leaves up there protect you, you can listen.
I feel I should pause here, because there is a delay in the way this all happens. Besides, the moment deserves a pause. Like it would be inappropriate to rush it.
Then. Then the rain picks up and leaves give way to the weight of the moisture. Soft pit-pats become a drenching swish, a swish that makes it down past the leaves to the air that surrounds you. Down to the shrubs and small plants that grow near the path. Down to the dirt. It’s a different kind of rain sound. The kind they overdo in movies. Why can’t they get that right?
Then, I guess it’s time to move on. Make a dash for it, find a dry spot.