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It's a relief to hear the rain. It's the sound of billions of drops, all equal, all equally committed to falling, like a sudden outbreak of democracy. Water, when it hits the ground, instantly becomes a puddle or rivulet or flood.

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: 'After a heavy rainfall, poems titled 'Rain' pour in from across the nation.'

Into each life some rain must fall.

The rain began again. It fell heavily, easily, with no meaning or intention but the fulfilment of its own nature, which was to fall and fall.

The rain begins with a single drop.

I like rain, actually.

My mom used to tell me when I was little, 'When it rains, it's God's manifestation - a big day's waiting to happen.'

I am like the rain: I go where I'm needed.

Many a man curses the rain that falls upon his head, and knows not that it brings abundance to drive away the hunger.

It always rains on tents. Rainstorms will travel thousands of miles, against prevailing winds for the opportunity to rain on a tent.