Drops of water cling closely to the glass. Beyond the window is a wet gray light, and only the outlines of trees blur into black. Some light still remains, but it is nearly time for it to set, so each drop holds that last brightness like a small lens.
Looking at a scene like this, the eyes lose the place where they should focus. You try to look far away and catch on the glass, you try to look at the glass and drift far away again. After a few of these round trips, the tension held between your brows loosens on its own, and your shoulders come down by a hand's width. When your fingertips move close to the glass, the coolness outside comes through without being touched.
On rainy days it feels as though the day has been half postponed. What has to be done stays the same, but because it is overcast outside, the urge to hurry finds nowhere to go and pools inside. There is no reason to see that pooling as a bad thing.
How about opening the window a little and listening to the sound of the rain for about a minute. Without counting the sounds or naming them, follow only the grain of it thickening and thinning. You may close your eyes, or you may simply keep watching the drops.
That same minute opens up in front of the evening dishes as well. Following the grain of the water striking the dishes and sliding off, you come to notice how far your head had tilted toward the sink. It would be enough just to observe how the back of your neck is being pulled then, and whether the right side and the left side are stiff in different ways. Toward noting it rather than fixing it.
A single drop hangs on the window, then runs down in a long line. Following that trail, the next drop comes.
