All Quite Wet on the Windshield Front

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It is raining lightly all around,
But I am not wet, but rather dry.
Inside the car I can hear the sound
Of raindrops tapping by and by.

I watch the raindrops on the windshield,
As they hurry and try to escape
The track of the wipers, but most yield
To the vast area of this shape.

As a drop hits the surface, the air
Tries to help it along, to push it,
But the journey really is not fair
To those having no power, who sit.

Most scurry quickly toward their goal.
Some of them reach it; others do not.
These poor little droplets, as a whole,
Must simply settle for their lot.

Each little drop hurries for its life.
Most do not succeed; they do not gain,
But then, regardless of all this strife,
Wipers continue to wipe the rain.

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