Drops of water crowd a single pane of glass. Beyond it, colors like orange, teal and a wall faded to red spread out and lost their borders with one another. At every trace where a thick stream ran down the glass, the color is dragged downward in a long line. Just before the sun goes down completely, this is the hour when a wet window turns deepest.
When you set your focus on the drops, the colors outside blur, and when you try to look at the colors, the drops disappear. After moving between the two a few times, the eyes quietly let go. The shoulders come down a little, and the breath you draw in reaches the lower belly.
Today's mind is closer to a state of impatience at not having made any one thing come out clearly. There are quite a few things in the world that are fine left blurred.
How about going to the window and listening to the rain for just one minute. The sound striking the glass, the sound falling from the eaves, the sound of wheels passing along a wet road far off. You can let them pass without bothering to tell them apart.
The same minute can be made under an umbrella as well. While the rain strikes the roof of the bus stop, there is a way of letting the eyes that were about to check when the bus comes drift for a moment toward the wet road. Then it is enough to look at about where the shoulders have risen. You can check whether they are up near the ears, a little away, or one of them higher, and leave them as they are.
When one drop grows heavy enough, it cuts a path of its own and slides down.
