Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
— T S Eliot, Rhapsody on a Windy Night
A rainstorm ran into me on the road today. It was a new experience. The soft rain beat insistently, forcing my eyes to take turns opening. I brushed a soaked skein of hair from my cheek. Water swirled down my forehead and drip-dropped through my vision.
But the air was cool on my skin, and I looked at the lighted street lamps in the still-bright evening sky. I ran without much thought, the rhythm of a song in my mind.