The winter rains. Here they come. Gusting in on wings of blustery whip-sting lashing tongues of cold soaking rains of flying water. Turning the asphalt into a running network of quick-running overlapping inch-deep streams. Suddenly it's all weathery. The gray comes bending over us, looming, as if examining a bug: and we are the bug. It is like a big wet towel, squeezing itself out like a big wet gray towel, and the water that drains out as it twists and wrings itself is cold and gray, and soaking.
If some giant stooped over the land, hunched with a gigantic tin pail in his hands, swinging the pail back and forth in wide circles while tipping it so that the water spilled out over the wide rim, the result would be like what we see outside right now, except probably a lot more splashy. Right now, it's pelting down and sideways, but it's not as if you keep getting hit by huge gallons of a wide watery swathe that lands all at once cutting across and back in an acres-spanning circular pattern, such as you might expect to see if some giant had stooped over the land, hunched with a gigantic tin pail in his hands, swinging the pail back and forth in wide circles and tipping it so that the water were to spill out over the wide rim and down onto us.
So we can be thankful for that at least!