The eyes hear it first:

the rain sheeting, careening crazy down the windshield. A splitsecond later, as the car moves forward, the ears receive the bounty of sound, the pitter too soon after the patter.

I imagine slow rain to have vowels like long e and long i, but a monsoon downpour does away with all the vowels, and insists on rapid-slurred consonants, kkkkk ppppp. The ride to the office gives me more than ample time to imagine the outposts of the language of rain, as traffic is an inch a minute. I see a man stalled on his bicycle, leaning against a parked car, too weary to struggle the last few meters to the waiting shed. The couple in the taxi in front of me ignore the rain, the jam, the taxi driver sneaking peeks at them in his rearview mirror. It is a rain-bleak morning, but they flutter their fingers on each other’s cheeks and make their own sunshine.