Not even a cat was out. The rain surged down with a steady drone. It meant to harm New York and everyone there. The gutters could not contain it. Long ago they had despaired of the job and surrendered. But the rain paid no attention to them… New York people never lived in houses or even in burrows. They inhabited cells in stone cliffs. They timed the cooking of their eggs by the nearest traffic light. If the light went wrong, so did the eggs…

A beautiful rain is a treasure box. Inside this magical box there is an artistic umbrella, there is a pretty rainbow, there is a sweet bird singing and there is a lovely smell of earth! Something wonderful has a great potential to create some other wonderful things!

It is raining blood today.
I open my book and write “Black Lives Matter

All this waiting.
Waiting for the rain to
stop. Waiting in traffic.
Waiting for the bill.
Waiting at the airport
for an old friend.
Waiting to depart.
Then,
there’s the big waiting:
waiting to grow up. Waiting
for love. Waiting to show your
your parents that when you
have kids you’ll be different.
Waiting to retire. Waiting for
death.
Why do we think waiting
is the antithesis of life
when it is almost
all of it?

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