Sunset and rain, a silent walk, my reflection in the wet street. Cold, but I’m warm. The air is cold, but clean. The light is fading, and the streetlamps o’er my head are burning. A murder’s huddled in the branches of a nearby tree, their dark eyes staring out through the still green leaves; ancient vigilance.
The rain comes and goes. It seems to stop, and then drizzles once more. The streets, for now, are quiet. I know somewhat of why. Business has stopped, friends have gone; for those left here, a holiday till their return. Not even Christmas, coming in its own good time, makes my world so quiet, peaceful.
The spotty clouds are like thin streaks of fire over the silent city, and as the colors are deepening and growing dim, my heart yearns with every step I take, longing, breaking, weeping, for something I can’t name. The whole world has gone insane, I think, I fear, obsessed with something not half so dear as what God gives to us this night, this brilliant, dying light.
Perambulating in the dark, the sound of rain now stops, now starts, and I weep westward for one dead sun I know must rise again. Ah, but what beauty! Let the world follow false gods; I have walked the quiet streets in the rain.
Tale Told 