The rain is strung tinsel as the headlights pass through it, the gutters ripple as traffic passes this test. The rain is lost pebbles casting circles as they sink. The rain is a tide of the sky just falling again and again, the dawn some bird seeking refuge on a wire. The day another sojourner, always passing through.
I listen to a pretty song, playing out through trick and trial. Sweet and insistent, passionate and a little forlorn. A little slip of magic, stoppered away in a bottle. A mood to summon and abide, to turn over and over in these soaked through moments. A simple evocation, a delicate hissing of prayer repaired and released into the wilds of time. The song ends, the music changes. The feeling lingers, the last verse diminishing already into the clutter of spent chances. The feeling lingers, the rain pushing through outside.
The day comes, and I should make some coffee. The day is here, and I have nothing prepared. Just these dappled ablutions of rain, these rates of change marked in blue moods and running water. A single crow high above, searching this obsolescence. The crow on its ancient errand, finding some purchase above this tide. The rain falls, and I forget the labors of doves. That day begun, beneath these aimless clouds and flailing rains. That crow loosed, working at rediscovering the world.
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