ain fell steadily over the zoo, softening every sound. Visitors moved slowly, umbrellas brushing past one another, but Punch did not move at all.
He sat quietly, rain darkening his fur, eyes half-open as if listening to something deeper than the weather.
There was no performance in him that day. No reaching, no pacing. Just presence.
From where I stood, it felt less like watching an animal and more like sharing a pause. The rain seemed to give Punch permission to rest in the open, without expectation. He didn’t seek shelter right away. He let the moment pass over him.
In that stillness, something gentle happened. People nearby lowered their voices. Children stopped pointing. The rain made everyone slower, calmer—almost more respectful.
Punch eventually shifted, not in a hurry. He shook the water from his arms and looked out once more, as if taking note of who had stayed with him through the rain.
It was a small moment. But small moments are often the ones that stay.
