The rain comes drizzly like an old lover you thought you might want to see again and when you see him you recall he makes you nothing but cold and full of memories you’d rather forget.

All pale and hollow-eyed, that’s this kind of rain.

Cold fingers at the back of the neck. Chapped lips and maybe a tongue burnt on too-hot tea, that’s this kind of rain.

It all looks flat like somebody stepped on the sky, dark and moist and cold and grey, a dull rush of continuous heavy drizzle, no distinguishable drops, just wet, the land smothered in clouds and shadows.

This is not the kind of rain that makes people rejoice. This is reflective rain, rain for pondering the depths, for pulling back the shrouds.

This is not the kind of rain that shakes the leaves from the trees, not the kind of rain that ripples the surface of the water like a thousand fish. It is the kind of rain for kingfishers and madmen.

And the only spoken commentary remains:
"Rainin’."
"Yep."