What would the world look like from inside the realm of a raindrop?

In the slow descent from cumulonimbus — for 2 minutes until the terminal velocity is met, careening with the soil with the devastating force of a small splash.

Each droplet, a unique 120-second lens lost forever.

It’s hard, at first, to remember when to jump.

It takes practice, measuring the invisible inches between each droplet. The protective surface tension wards back the 14-mile-per-hour winds as the gap is mentally calculated.

Don’t forget about the wind speed!

It’s a lot to remember, I know. Falling is easy; jumping is hard. I often take the leap and measure after, but it is unwise to follow someone who has fallen so many times. We can be lazy.

From the inside, it is different. Traffic sounds are muffled into whispers. Voices barely trickle through the watery walls. Everything is as if it were suspended in time.

For two minutes, the world is quiet in all of its bustling noisiness. It is oddly still as you fall, knowing fully that in 60 seconds, this lens is lost. In 10 seconds, it’s prudent to find a new drop to transfer to. In 20 seconds, it’s time to take it in. In 30 seconds, grab the walls of the droplet and pull them apart. It’s windy, be ready.

40 seconds. Think fast.

50 seconds.

There is a puddle over there.

Transfer.