It was raining. Little rain, not the big, heavy drops that fell when the sky broke down. Little rain. Light rain. Rain that, if you held really still, might miss you entirely.
River didn't want to be missed. She lifted her arm, hand out, palm to the ground. A raindrop hit the back of her hand, leaving a tiny catastrophe behind. Breaking all to pieces that became their own.
She brought her hand to her face and looked at it—at the water hanging on to the hairs like they were tree trunks in the storm. She licked the raindrop off like a cat. It tasted like water. Water with tiny bits of cloud and microbes. And it tasted like River. River water.
She looked up at the clouds. They were low and gray like eyebrows. The sky was angry. Not angry. Annoyed. Annoyed that the Rivers and Lakes were falling apart and sending their pieces up to him. He could't be bothered to hold them all. He already had to hold the sun. He had to drop all the pieces he was holding. He gave them back and the River came back together. All of those little bits that were missing were there again. It was the water cycle. It was a simple principle of natural science. The River would be whole again.
River held out her arms and turned her face to the sky.