It was a warm, rainy morning; the kind of morning that wraps you up and lets the rain seep into your bones. The sun stayed in the cloud's pocket and gave a vague idea of orange. Only a few mourning doves sat on the telephone lines. The colors didn't begin to drip, as they do most morning; they stayed deep. Greens, browns, blacks, and many, many greys. Like the bottom of a muddy pond. On days like these, there is no such thing as white. Nothing is confused, and all is calm. Legs fall asleep on the schoolbus, as gravel is picked out of boots. Books are left open, pages fluttering, to dry out the raindrops. These few days are a bare summer. Sleeves are rolled up, and horoscopes are almost accurate. Nothing is the matter, but something will be soon. Pulses move groundwater instead of blood. Jellyfish are bobbing on yellow paper, stuck between and papercuts. The Earth is on a leash today. A lonely, lucky motorcycle only hits green lights as it passes through downtown. The hands on a clock line up perfectly for just a moment. Small feelings are felt by an even smaller person.
