It never rains at the Poles; it snows instead. Here in the warmer lands is the first time that Katara has learned the sound of rain, the feel of rain, the smell of wet grass.
She is used to the rhythms of the sea -- in, out, in, out -- and the slow swirling of snowflakes, windborn but water-bound.
But the rain is water too. Its pressure moves in her bones like pain, like the ache of stretched muscles; it builds in her like held breath; and then it comes bursting down in gouts of fury, or drifting in slow watchful veils.
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