A tale of rainbow rainfall
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April 5th, 1950
Dear Journal,

I thought that the fields of France would never be the same again after they were torn up by the Great War, and then barely given time to heal before fighting started again. Yet I sit here, underneath a tree which provides a gentle shade, and the hills seem to be the same ones from when I was a kid. As I am writing this a gentle rain seems to be starting over the horizon. Soon I'll have to move to my porch to avoid getting this book wet.

I barely made it to the porch before the drizzle started. I was going to hide away inside, but I noticed something wonderful. The rain wasn't just everyday water coming from the sky as before. Each drop was a different color. Each drop seemed to briefly turn the blade of grass it dropped on into that same color. Soon the entire fields became rolling in waves of color.

The birds didn't hide in the trees, nor did they fly off to find sunshine. Instead, as I flip flop between writing and watching this incredible event the birds seem to be dancing in the sky. They too also seem to be decorated with colors as they fly. Each individual feather effected by the droplets. It is a sight to behold, even if it lasts but a moment.

Thankfully, I was granted longer than a moment.

My daughter threw on her rain coat and ran out to go enjoy the event. She's out there now, playing with the birds. Her entire raincoat changing colors by the second as new raindrops fall upon her head. Her rain-boots never match with her coat in this spring shower. The three parts to her gear always end up being their own special color. When she splashes up the clear ground droplets she causes them become wondrous once more, as they meet the still colored rain falling from the sky. Then in a blink it all fades as it falls to the ground.

April 6th
Yesterday, my daughter gestured for me to join her in the spring shower. I grabbed my old grass rain cape and went out into the fields. She had us spin around in circles, and then for me to lift her up like she was an airplane. At one point a bird landed on her head and started to sing. I could almost feel each note of the birds song turn into a variety of colors before my soul.

My daughter climbed the tree I liked to sit under. Each leaf of our tree gently switched colors every couple of seconds as it absorbed the continuously falling rain. As she shook the branches, all the colors flew off the tree, and faded as they were flung into the fly. Then they were replaced before our eyes. She kept climbing up that tree, occasionally shaking the branches to find the same wonder in the repeated results. She jumped down into my arms when she was done, and we had a hug as amazing as the event around us.

My daughter is young, and I am not sure if she will remember the joy of the day we spent in the color filled rain. Yet I will. I will remember the birds singing songs of joy, and the tree which changed color each second. I will remember the joy I saw in her eyes as the bird landed on her head, and as she exclaimed. "Dad come on there's magic rain!"

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