2018: 8: 3

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.


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I wrote a book called Kaitiaki o te Pō