The Rain Children.

With blue fingers, one small hand plucks at the vessel passing below its bed and tears at its edge. The ragged fingernails close tight around the tattered scrap and three pairs of liquid eyes watch the drop of water as it trickles from between the thin fingers and rolls, flashing, through the air.
Delight flicks them awake and they tumble from their beds, scrambling over each other in their hurry. Small eyes alight with mischief, small bodies tight with anticipation, small mouths wide with excitement. They land with soft thuds on the swollen body and roll and stumble over the hills and dips and scream with elation as the heavy cotton yields beneath them and the water droplets collect and fall, one by one by one. Their laughter wakes others who jumble to join them in a disarray of skinny bodies and translucent limbs. Bare feet pound the heavy mass below them. Eager fingers squeeze at the hunched edges. Wide eyes follow the round transparent diamonds as they seep from the soaked fabric and drop to the ground far below.
The wind teases the crooked curls and fly away locks as the pointed faces peer over the sides and giggle with glee. With sparkling laughter of ocean spray, with climbing cries of seagull joy, with butterfly chuckles of morning springs they voice their ecstasy.
Down below, the world is drenched. Heavy droplets thud against the concrete and smack at the dripping leaves. Miniature waves ripple across broken surfaces. Cracks and crevices become cups for the thirsty to sip from, overspilling their crystal wine to the dark earth.
Dilated irises of morning dew blink and crease and smile as the world drinks it's fill. The sound of clapping hands is hidden in the rattle of the raindrops against tiles. The children dance in their sodden rapture as the bodies below scurry to hide and cower and cover from the wet.

One being's delight is another being's depression. At times.