Taps on the Glass

A soft patter drew me over to the wide wooden windowsill. Outside, water was drumming steadily against the pane. I scrambled up onto the painted wood and pressed both paws against the cool glass. Right in front of my nose, tiny silver droplets quivered, merging into slow, wobbly streams. Each time a fat drop struck, a tiny rhythmic tap vibrated straight into my palms. I followed one slow bead with the tip of my paw, tracing its quiet slide until it pooled along the outer frame.