The rain 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.