Where the Droplets Land

It's so much work for the sprinkling rain to pepper the windshield of this car, yet it only takes the wiper's blade - one pass - and now, it's void of water. Each drop's a head in a growing crowd; a newborn drop is a camera flash, and I'm the one that they applaud a clapping hand with every splash... They echo once, and then they're flat. Elder drops loom overhead. They've escaped the wiper's blade. When they grow thick, they plow a path into the newer drops of rain, and leave it empty in their wake. These ugly drops might grow in size yet still, they fall with their own weight. Their size promotes an earthward fate. In every aqueous convex lens, I see the same, exact, old sight The light refracts in ev'ry blot - my windshield is an insect's eye. The rain grows bold, the crowd is wild. My fallen friends are in uproar. The patterns I have grown to like have taken splash and been obscured. Time is up, the blade awakes - the windshield's now an empty spread. This drama shall unfold again, but I must watch the road, instead.