Gravity has great appeal for water. The rippling streams flowing along the low verges of the road attest to that, rushing downhill to seek the nearest ocean. Those drops have a long trip from here, though nothing compared to the trip they've already taken. All that water was recently evaporated from places I've never been and probably never will go. Some of it is evaporating again, after getting caught in my hoodie when I rushed out to the mailbox and back. What will become of it after it gets into the air in my house is what has always become of it— it will continue on its long journey.
Some of the water is soaking into the ground and will re-emerge in blades of grass or leaves on plants and trees or in the flowers that will bloom in a few weeks. Some of it will spend time in the earthworms that are burrowing through the soil, and some of that will end up in birds' bellies for a while, then evaporate once more from their desiccating droppings and rejoin the clouds and drift away to some other place I've never been and probably never will go. The falling rain reminds me that water molecules have far more adventure than I do. I think I'll boil some water for tea. If I'm stuck here, at least what I drink has been around the world, again and again.