Rainy Sunday in Buenos Aires
Last night’s heavy rain had evolved into a constant, slow fall. The wind remained, pushing itself into faces, tossing trash recklessly across the boulevards.
The rain deepened the colors of the forest. Trees had greener leaves, browner trunks. The leaves hung heavier on their branches, as if about to give birth to new life on the next sunny day. The wind stirred the branches, wiping the moisture off the leaves. Thus removing the ability of the trees to provide cover from the rain. At the furthest tips of the highest branches, purple flower buds were just blossoming. Proof that this cold, rainy day was the beginning of spring.
Pavement tiles had little streams in the crevices. To an insect these were as raging torrents, sweeping victims to oblivion.
Overhangs gave protection, but only after walkers braved curtains of run-off.
If the sky was canvas, then God was spreading clouds across it like the first layer of paint. Lighter patches stood in contrast to the darker shades. In a minute the canvas had changed, the clouds rushing across the visible sky, the space between buildings.
Inside the cafe was warm, dry. Smelled of heated air and coffee. The glass window next to the table a welcome barrier, turning an unpleasant day into a warm, rich experience.
Written on the corner of Santa Fe and Carlos Pellegrini, Buenos Aires, Argentina