Drops of rain spot the window. Their journey to this plane, one of velocity and collision, one drop crashing into another, ballooning and reducing in size as they plummet. Their flight towards the glass all manically choreographed by an unseen wind, itself the puppet of an incomprehensible atmosphere above and all around. The wind scatters them everywhere and over the last half-hour several hundred have been thrown against this glass. For most, their purchase is only momentary. Some hit and abseil straight to the bottom; others slalom their way via fingerprints, grease marks and fossilised bird shit down to the sill, where their life on a horizontal plane begins to redefine them as they form pools and puddles.
Yesterday, the wind was lifting small specks of dust. Just tossing them from one place to another. Little clouds of nothing remarkable. Small events that almost passed without notice and which left behind no real sign of ever having happened. The wind picked up leaves too; cartwheeled their ovate forms around a floor of yellow and red, which is to say it took a yellow leaf and placed it where red once was, and took red to lay over the top of what was once yellow. Again: interfering with all that it had the strength to move, yet tampering with so many infinite like shapes and particles that one could not point to the evidence of its having visited.
Today, the wind directs things less noticeably, despite what would appear to be a more obvious workload; it has combed the window with rivulets of water which refract the red and yellow floor beyond the glass one thousand times over. It happened the same way as a boy. Then, the rain disguised more than once the ugly concrete and red brick of a street on which we never chose to live. Later, it concealed a goodbye to the city I once called home, as heavy evening showers whipped the window of the coach for two hours. But those are just pop-up memories, gone as quickly as the raindrops themselves. There and then not there. Almost nothing.