In a cold rain, the doe stood still, felt the chill settle in her whole skeleton, her coat sleek and her eyes stinging. She couldn't seem to close them, couldn't seem to look away. Not that there was anything to look to: an endless, flat plain, all grey rock. And the doe felt every second of it, raw. It was as if the rain pierced through her flesh and flayed her spirit, without cessation. Just when she was sure her knees would buckle, and she would fall, something mesmerizing began to happen.
The rain became soft. It eased up, and the hue changed. It was a quartz-white rain, feather down on her fur. She was still soaked to the bone, but the pain ebbed away. Still, the rain fell, but right before it hit the ground, in one huge burst the drops changed to moths and took flight, their white powder wings creating the rain. The young doe felt such joy at witnessing their flight. The surroundings, under the moth-rain, blossomed to white fields of flowers. The downpour now filled her with a different feeling. She was warm, content. That was how the dream ended, though she expected the cold rain to return one day; she understood the balance, and yet the extremes. For Downpour, there would be no middle ground.
