The door is made of glass.
As I look out I can see leaden skies dripping water onto an already saturated ground.
The water pools on the white concrete sidewalks
And shimmers, mixed with oil, on the dark pavement of the parking lot.
People hurry by,
From car to the door in the front
And from the door in the front to their car,
But not running.
The rain is steady
But not torrential.
On the glass of the door
Droplets have made a complex interwoven highway.
(I almost wrote “Trail of Tears” but that would be trite and inaccurate.
I’m not feeling sad as I watch.)
I can’t track the drops.
They roll down,
Hit other drops,
Separate into new drops
And roll on.
The pattern is too complex for my human eyes.
Chaos theory drawn in water on a door.
Each drop impacts
And impacts another.
Reminds me of something.
Rainy days are good for thinking.
Sometimes bad for thinking, I guess, if you’re thinking about the wrong things
But, fortunately, that’s not today.
I’m just looking through a glass door, darkly,
Waiting until I can see face to face,