Marching resolutely onward,
with sole obsession forward.
A blank awaits the silly backward
lookers drowning in the
shivering, slate-sweeping shower.

One’s main challenge is
avoiding the deeper puddles.
A slight uptick in spreadings,
in growing, concentric waves.
Step softly.
Disconnected memories,
full of chilling splashes
and ice-flooded tennis shoes.

One notices the moving figures,
pursuing shelter with similar single-mindedness.
They were all the same under the eve,
before one’s journey started.
Young birds shivering and disconnected

Then, you achieve the awning
and fulfill the promise of dry.
Once more you bask in clarity and focus,
but you carry a little stormcloud,
a reminder of those immensely quiet minutes.
Your soaked hair plays God
and drips diamonds down your face.