Rain Racers

A little girl and her Dad stand on top of a hill.
Before them stretches endless farmland, out and out in every shade of green like the patchwork of a mad druid's cloak.
The sun is an angry white hole burning in the pale blue of the empty sky and they stand under the shade of a small copse of trees away from it's piercing glare.
The girl's father lifts a hand to his brow and says,
"Do you see the rain coming?"
The girl does not fully believe him but she does know that adults know many things, perhaps even precisely when the rain falls.
She looks at the landscape. It was the sun's domain.
The only grey to be seen was within the smatter of shadows casts by an unimpressive bundle of clouds to their right.
Her father gestures at them, aggressively stabbing his finger like a feisty musketeer at the little lot.

She is about to squint at them then realizes with a jolt that she doesn't need to.
She can see it, even though she can hardly believe it.

A giant wall of rain, towering from field to sky.

She stands in awe, entranced by the bright sun catching the cascading raindrops, making them dance with gold and silver light. It was as if someone up high, mistaken about the time of day, was pouring out a fresh cup of starlight.

Goosebumps shoot up her arms as she notices that amongst the twinkling, it's also moving.

And toward them - fast.

Her Dad grabs her hand and with a great cry, yells "let's see if we can make it to the car!"

And off he bolts down the hill, his daughter flapping behind him like a plastic bag caught on a car.
She clings on for dear life, her little legs moving faster than they ever have as she picks up speed on the downhill.
Behind her she hears the hiss of rain on grass, getting louder and louder and in her childlike mind she is panicking a little; they are, of course, mice, being chased by the giant rattlesnake that was coiled around the hill, just waiting for the time to strike.

They make it to the dusty car park, sides heaving and sprint the final stretch toward the car.
No time for manners, they throw the door open and both pile in the back.
They've made it!, she thinks.
Or have they?
Her Dad turns to her, laughing in disbelief.
"Check your back", he says.
She touches the back of her clothes and is surprised to find it damp, while her front, somehow, remains bone dry.
They both start giggling with each other, eyes sparkling with wonder.
They had raced the rain that day but not quite won. It leaving it's gentle handprint upon their backs as if to say, "it was a good effort, really, but we know who the real winner is here."

Later on, the father drops the little girl off at her mother's who, upon hearing the babbling tale, raises an eyebrow and scoffs slightly.

And on one day, years on from then. The girl, now a woman, asks her father.

"Dad, do you remember the rain on the hill?"

"I don't," he says ",your memories seem to get jumbled as you get older."