rain-soaked brain

The scattered patches of puddles along the road infront of my office are now one. The rain and the narrow gutter-drain gave them wholeness and direction. I'm looking at the sluggish rapids through the blinds I pulled up: leaves, twigs and candy wrappers in transit.

Tis the glum season to admit defeat: I rest my forehead on the wet-opaque window: everything within eyesight--the trees, the slippery sidewalk, the lifeless road, the distant grass--has this dampened grey-brown aura of hibernating slowness.

I wonder who took my umbrella.