The rain falls like a mist over everything, an April rain, artful and deceiving.
I walk through the mist of April and look at people hurrying by, shielding themselves from the rain with whatever is handy. Some have umbrellas.
Night is coming with the rain, and the lights of the Village blend and blur with the lights of cars going by. The lamppost through the rain seems almost as though it has been sketched by someone. The wind blows, and gusts shake the trees and street lamps. The trees are leafless, but tiny buds are starting to open. Here and there are cherry and dogwood trees with a certain splendor against a grey and dimming night.
I dreamed of such rainswept nights long ago and far away, when the city gleamed in my consciousness like a distant dream about to happen. I dreamed of the rain. The rain was always the beginning, setting the stage. A story would unfold, slipping from the mystery of the rain like a phantom. The rain is like a curtain opening, and we can see the characters dimly. There they are, waiting for some destiny to tap them on the shoulder.
Now I dream of other cities. The world beckons and I know there are other cities waiting for me in the rain, perhaps in other lifetimes.