Cartography of Rain

Rain writes maps on the windshield— temporary rivers finding the low places, each drop a small explorer charting its own descent.

The earth remembers every storm, holds them in the rings of trees, in the silt that settles slow as dust, in the way new moss knows where the water lingers longest.

We call ourselves rooted but we're learning the language of drift—how seeds ride wind, how a single cloud can travel countries, how home is less a place than a pattern of return.

Even the mountains were once beach, sang with the sound of tides, before the slow violence of time pressed them into their current shape, stone by stone into permanence.