A bright blue sky is covered with Bob Ross’ gossamer clouds. It is becoming one of the most beautiful times of the year, autumn. Leaves are changing, red, brown, orange, yellow, green. All sorts of colors on a single tree, the tree is yet changing at different speeds throughout its configuration. A crow crouches in front of me on a tall white street light, cawing with its long shiny beak. I stomp in tiny puddles that look as if they were glass, reflecting sharply above them. A sprinkle of water lands on the tip of my nose, dripping down until the groove above my lip. I blink, and suddenly thousands of raindrops start to shoot down, shattering to drops as they land on the rigid ground. I stand, still looking up, as the drops trickle down my cheeks, and my forehead, and my hair. 

I keep on walking as it starts to pelt down harshly. The round puddles start to gain their size, filled with rubble and debris. Branches and twigs rhythmically bob their leaves, as droplets of water fall to the earth. Even the crows squawk their complaints and head to shelter. But I walk steadily, hood off, shoes becoming muddy and soaked.

As glass-like shards skim my eyelashes and eyelids, forcing them down, I keep them up. And I see a beautiful rainbow above me, peeking through a cloud.