A beautiful grey dawn in which the gentle rain is coming straight touches the sleeping city. The grass is soaked and emerald green and all its former drought forgotten. It reaches up the poles and strives in unruly tufts down where the trees harbor their gloom. Soft, nearly silent rain is whispering in drops each bearing its own light into the darkness of the grass, through the harboring foliage of the trees in small, assorted flashes.
By afternoon it clears away. The light-bearing clouds retreat to the eastern hills and little white ones soar in the sun’s triumphant field. He shines rampant, and all the pigeons lift up victorious wings and go like hymns ascending. While down below the grass continues growing, furtive, waiting for the clouds and for the secret music of the night.
The concrete has its mossy graces in the rainy season. The steel shutters mimic the blind puddles, each in their respective faces: horizontal one and vertical.
The sky absorbs the vapor from a factory into its limitless and nondescript expanse. Water everywhere, and yet it is as if there were no sky, only an emptiness diffusing light.