Transfer

There was something completely satisfying today about placing my index finger against the surface of a raindrop that was held on the edge of a branch, and watching the surface tension transfer from the branch to my finger; the water would run down in a rivulet, across my palm, and onto my wrist, changing its status from stillness to movement. Before this transformation the still drop had been a tiny lens, capturing forms and bending the light onto its delicate surface. And there were thousands of these along the dark branches and on the pointed tips of pine needles. But to shift the form of the single drop–from a static encapsulation to participating in dispersion–felt perfect in the quiet of late winter.