Palimpsest of Rain

The gutters collect their small alphabets, water pooling in letters no one reads— a grammar of forgetting where concrete cracks let the earth's old script bleed through.

Each drop rewrites the sidewalk, erases yesterday's chalk drawings with its own patient hand. The leaves become mirrors, holding sky the way we hold impossible conversations with our younger selves.

A bird lands on the wet railing, shakes out its wings like a secret too heavy to keep. The rain continues its translation, teaching the world a simpler language: persistence, transformation, the space between falling and landing.