Every glass of water
has lived a thousand lives.
This is one of them. Meet a single drop, holding on to the edge of a dawn cloud, about to let go.
scroll, and let go ▾Two kilometres,
eleven minutes.
It falls with a hundred million siblings, through cold air and birdsong, aimed at nowhere in particular. Nothing this small has ever been this brave.
It joins everything
that ever fell.
Rain becomes stream becomes river. Our drop carries a leaf for three kilometres, out of kindness. Rivers are just weather, remembering.
Someone drinks
the rain.
Pumped, filtered, poured. It becomes tea, then a shower, then a puddle a child refuses to walk around. Cities borrow every drop — the debt is real. Rainkeeper collects it back: every donation restores a litre to a depleted watershed.
The sea keeps it
for ninety years.
Down where sunlight gives up, our drop drifts past things with their own light. The ocean is where water goes to think.
And one warm morning,
the sun asks it to dance.
It rises — lighter than air, higher than birds — back to the very cloud where you met it. It will fall again. It always falls again.