Dancing in the rain is purely kinetic.

Feeling sharp dashes of rain slide down my hair, punctuating poetry with a zest. The sodden trails of wet leaves underneath my feet, soft and rumpled. Cars swooshing past, sending white sprays of water onto flowerbeds overflowing colour; gold, purple, crimson, as if a gardener reached up and took a handful of a particularly glorious sunset. Singing, feeling my voice fall in rhythm with the rain, spinning dizzily on a slender green pole. Attempting balance with outstretched arms, impromptu steps on cobblestoned squares, joyous pirouettes into hollows of reflective pools.

The greatest joy of adulthood is acting like a child.