The puddles are dirty, a brown layer of grime swilling about under the water’s clear surface which reflects the sky. Little toothpicks of vivid green grass jut daringly out of the saturated soil, while the jagged fingers of established oaks scar the sky like lightning. Old, new -- just alike.
It begins to rain, so lightly that at first it seems unreal, like looking at a slightly grainy TV program or a scratched painting. The little white streaks of rain drops are so fleeting as to be invisible. But my skin knows it’s raining, knows the fresh, electric feeling of watery air and the tiny tingle of raindrops hitting my palm. My skin knows the rain is good, that a shower cleanses the earth we pollute. My skin is very wise.
It is wet out so most creatures have gone inside (they are much wiser than us). But somewhere in the stillness a gull shrieks its strangled cry, reminding me of sadness and the ocean.
