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Roads float, we stumble.
Only yesterday, the wet child ran around creating dark shiny patches on the floor. The patches changed shapes. They turned lighter and disappeared. The child made more. A wet breeze rose. Drops trapped precariously within clouds fell. Drops trapped precariously within leaves fell. Dark greens, limpid and liquid, melted with dark grays and browns. Drops drummed. Drops tinkled. Drops hummed. The earth turned dark and moist. The earth yielded to little fingers. Rivulets were born.Lakes were born. Paper boats floated in search of the sea. A translucent green bud bathed under a waterfall. Ants swam desperately. Snails made precarious journeys from liquid branch to branch. Soggy earthworms lay inert. Crows, dripping blurs of black, meditated under arched roofs. Frogs became sociable, musical. The child's irises, eyelashes, mouth, fingertips quivered. The rainbow dazzled against pale grays and yellows. Toes curled in wonder. Dirty rags, bits of coloured plastic, a shimmering turd swim to their destiny. Cabs flee. Drunken buses totter and swerve dangerously. A million cold wet needles fall. Prophets promise a great cleansing rain. I wait, wet and cold, for a bus to office.
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