I sit in attendance, along with the numerous other guests. On my left side is a grey mouse. On my right, a moon. Behind us, a droopy-eyed willow tree. Before the ceremony begins in earnest, we all talk amongst ourselves. The hall is filled with echoing squawks and titters. Little snippets of sentences trill gently out of bird beaks, stutter heavily out of granite mouths.

Then, a hush. The Rain walks in, wearing a gown of cold water. Droplets run like beads up and down the threads formed from spider silk, sweeping up and looping around. A glistening tower of glass. There is, in the midst of all this, only the faintest suggestion of a body.

We all stare in admiration. We look at the Rain, and then at the Earth, and then back at the Rain again. The Earth stands slightly hunched — wearing twigs and green moss, smelling faintly of mushroom. The Earth is a friend of ours, but there is really no comparison.

The grey mouse nudges my elbow with its tiny paw. I let it clamber up my arm and onto my shoulder.

How long do you think it will last this time? it asks me, whiskers brushing my cheek. There is no disapproval in the question, only curiosity.

I shake my head. Who knows. Maybe this’ll be a brief summer shower. Maybe it’ll be a storm that thunders on for weeks and weeks. Somewhere in the sky above us, a bell begins to ring. The sound washes over us like a flood.