The rain drips on silent umbrellas. Or rather continues to drip, as it was dripping before I wrote these words.
I don't need shelter. Perhaps people seek comfort too much. When did standing out in pouring rain become bad for one, I wonder, and write that I wonder, though in fact I don't really.
In the hills of East Africa some carried umbrellas against the sun, and the blue of corydalis flower lay scattered over the mountains. Not raindrops but trying.
the flowers grow