is coming down. Outside the yellow blossoms
on the trees rejoice in the special kind of wetness that brings out the greenness in things. Down the side of the street, a crisp packet
swirls in the gutter on its way to an unknown elsewhere.
In the café
it is not wet. People sit. The tables are slightly worn. In a corner dried flowers
stare at the window. The television is telling them about a shooting in a school
, tanks in Israel
, a new kind of toothpaste
. They are looking out, past the people, at the falling rain washing the darkness out of the air; and splash in big wet drops on the muddy earth. I brush past them as I leave and think that I am missing something very simple
. Life breaks around this moment.