It's been raining since before I really woke up. The marble near the windows is cold to the feet, and the puddles, in the fields that border us, are turgid pools in which tadpole-shapes might gleam for a few days. Cars slush by, there is a delicious blue-gray sound to them, as if the tarred street were soft turquoises. The reservoir in the distance sheaths its heart in vapour. The trees draw gossamer veils from the rain. And the green of the forest runs, so the far ridges are smudged, a pale silver, seeping into the sky.
Apartment block lights become streaky oil-daubs, they attain little nimbi. There is almost-silence, stillness, a crystallisation of molecules and a limpid quality to things. Appliances operate like they are turned by water - smoother, and the pivots glide. It's a day of books and coffee-cocoa. |