The sky across the wet tracks was a bright gray compared to the salad of trees past the parking lot. Though, they were also gray. It feels like a Sunday. There aren't that many people out and the noises are simple. Rain. Occasional cars - people going home or coming out and away. The street is wet. The handrails for the steps are wet with drops. The pools of water collected in the potholes shine white to the sky. To my left, a couple of teenagers are doing tricks on their skateboards in place. They make the loud sounds of jumped, slapping wood and trucks and pavement in their loose hooded sweatshirts and talk about something unimportant.
The air here is clear. For all that could be said about a rainy day, it would be very difficult to call this particular one miserable. The regular commuters are probably here. Some of them are probably here, at least, but I wouldn't be able to recognize them. I don't come here often enough.
The thunder in the sky rumbles together and against itself and it reminds me of great change.
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