The clouds loom overhead with broad, grey fuselages about to burst.
Streaks of sunlight shine through a marbled ceiling of slate sky and black cloud.
Mi abuelita calls the crowded noise of perched sparrows, “Rain Chatter.”
White blossoms billow and blow away on the wind that carries the clouds.
Newspapers and pamphlets flap silently in the shadow of thunder.
Hanging chimes are instruments set out for the wind’s eager hands to play.
Concrete walls darken when wet, with ash shades seemingly sketched with charcoal. Stairs change into pools swollen with rain, crumpled leaves, and cigarette butts.
Snails attempt the ten yards from one side of the walkway to the other.
Shoes squelch in dark puddles of cold water that seeps into socks and feet.
Early darkness brings the soggy glow of street lamps to the evening.
The twisted fingers of a tree hold its last few leaves to the grey sky.