A drop on my arm. A tap among leaves. Beneath the forest crown, flashes of light drop from the sky, shooting stars streaking from the canopy, popping, slapping to mist in the vegetation.
A shshsh of apprehension grows with intensity as the light softens and fades, darkening into a diffused gauze. Leaves shudder beneath a crescendo of rain, reflecting delicate shimmers from a fragmented sky.
We have taken shelter beneath a towering Sacoglottis. The musky smells of decaying leaves and dropped fruits stir to life on wisps of battered air. The earth exhales while we wait for the shower to end.
Fifteen minutes, and the dry-season squall leaves us in a forest freshened, the constant plink of water slowly retreating. Far in some distant tree-theater, a pair of hornbills duet an evening serenade as we make our way along a trail on our return to camp.
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