Walking in the rain.
Near Salvation Cafe the rainwater was streaming across the footpath and into the gutter. Fresh rainwater running fast has a litheness, a sinuous quality: a translucent muscular presence snaking underground via the drains.
And the signature of heavy drops as they puncture the skin of the puddles and send up little crowns of water: silvery diadems.
Aside from that it is mostly the sound of car tyres and bus brakes and trucks changing down a gear with a sigh. That and the creeping realisation that the run off from my coat is slowly soaking my crotch and that this will not look good when I get to work.
The following morning scrolling through photos of where the storm landed properly. A spray of rubble and broken sea wall near Paekākāriki. Storms and shooters in American schools. Which route they take, which hallway, which mountain, which locked door: it determines so much.
A bright day the following day. Gusts of wind and a few clouds north. Sweep out the path. Right the rubbish bin. Walk to work again.