Drip, Drip, Drop.

The spring rain has abated for the time being, leaving a small, clear pool of water amongst the grass and clover. A single square walkway step's corner juts into its center. From the eaves above, where the adjacent porch's corners meet, drips the draining rainwater. One constant drip hits just northwest of the stone corner. Another drip intermittently lands on the stone itself; occasionally joined by a third droplet.
Like three elongated fingers of an aquatic pianist, the drips beat a cadence; a sure rhythm.
The song of spring rain; the heartbeat of the flora; so recently refreshed and encouraged, as always, to grow.