Rain is green and so solitary.

It is raining as I drive through the woods of Maine this morning, headed west, and the greenery is exploding.
Trees are popping their leaves before my eyes, a kaleidoscope of colors: yellow, red, every shade of green. I know how the deer, the cows feel: this green is so tempting I want to eat it, to rip the little budding leaves from the branches and swallow them.
The water has made the tall evergreens so dark that with their limbs tucked so close, they seem to be tightly hiding secrets in close to their trunks. I can't see, but rather sense, the little birds weaving and weaving a safe little home of twigs and string and other bits of refuse for their lovely blue eggs.
Flowers, freshly bloomed, bow their heads under the weight of the rain, genuflecting to Mother Nature in awe of the spectacle she has wrought.
Fog lingers along the edges of the fields, slowly retreating into the forests, and there, right there in the water-filled ditches, the wood ferns are unfurling their stiff stalks.

The car windows are wet and it mutes and wobbles the view. I stop at an intersection and the neighborhood and its little houses become a Monet.

The truck ahead of me tosses up the water from the roadway in little misty clouds while my wipers beat a steady rythmn: wap, wap, wap, wap.

I am thinking how lonely rain can be. It puts me in a solitary state of mind. Reflection is almost a requirement.
I must drive slower, slower still, so as not to miss a single color, a single tree or flower that is awakening for me. Everything is clean, fresh. Renewal. Rebirth. A chance to start again, perhaps to get it right or do it better this time.

And so I drive on, accompanied by the hard splat of rain on the windows and Vivaldi on the radio.
I am lost in the rain,
lost in my thoughts,
lost in spring.