At a certain point the mist of the cloud condenses into a solitary drop. It can be counted as such. It has it's own place in the world. I wonder what the drop thinks as it hurls toward the earth. It's life flashes before it's eyes. It is particularly lucky if it can land in a spot where no other drop had gone or will come. It can stay aloof from the stream for a short while longer.
But either it will fall into a puddle and disappear, or onto a windshield to be smeared into oblivion. Perhaps it will land between the blades of grass and be lost in the soil, or it will hit the hot blacktop and sizzle back up into the air in no unitary form. It is either cast into the sameness of the river, or sent misting back to the sky. IT will never to be the same drop again. Its identity is lost. Its surface tension, the only glue that held it together is gone.
To be a drop you must stand apart. To be a drop you must hold your shape. Does the drop take joy in its solitary or long to be part of the ocean, or the void?
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