Waterproof

 He was out in it today up in the hills, the curlews giving their watery trilling cries, the rain lashing him. All his clothes were soon soaked through and he was skiting and shlurping through thick mud where the track had been. Dirty and sodden and slipping as the clouds came down the hillside.
 The mossy grass too was water-logged and he played a stepping-stone game trying to navigate the worst of it by finding the thickest tussocks of coarse grass and jumping from one to another. His feet oozed water as he jumped his way onwards, his feet oozed water as he walked on. Sheep, tup-marked and chewing grass, watched disinterestedly.
His waterproofs weren't at all waterproof, his wet skin testified to that. But so what? His skin was only wet and inside it was  a heart and a soul there to soak in being out in this weather and these hills. To soak in the skylarks and curlews singing out their breeding grounds. To soak in the geese on the loch and passing over. For his head wasn't waterlogged with weary thoughts about terrible weather, it was alert and noticing, his tongue tasting the rain around his lips. This was all the waterproofing he needed, a heart and soul that repelled any misery and was thankful to be out in this weather. 
He had stopped and put down his hood, as the rain had stopped for a moment. He rubbed the fresh water from his face up into his hair to slick it back and then shook it out and looked around.  Across the hill from him the curlew still sang, this he knew for certain for he was there hearing its song of weather and water and composing his own song. Something about a waterproof heart and rain and curlew-song.