Fallin' hard

The rain was neither cat nor dog, but it was wet. I don't like umbrellas and prefer rain gear, usually in blue. The hitch in my plan almost always comes in a pair. I have rain pants, but never remember to wear them. My royal blue raincoat, excellent as it may be, can barely contain me and my backpack. I wander the streets, sans umbrella, hump-backed as my pants grow increasingly moist. I like the rain pounding down on me. It makes me feel dramatic and alive; I fight nature head on with only a raincoat to protect me. Faces in the city turn down or are blocked by the window waterfalls. This is my fight alone and I think I'm winning.

The foilage was matted to the trail. Soggy reds, oranges, and browns covered the path as my wheels spun quickly past. The creek was roaring from the previous night's storm. My legs churned and I pressed on down to the district. Somewhere between tan knee-high suede and short gray tweed summer turned to autumn. I followed.

Sipping pumpkin spice on the sunny part of art gallery steps, thousands of runners streamed through my view. A sea of singlets were nearing the halfway point for hours. I didn't move, but found myself lost in past, present, and future. I was buoyed by smiles, children cheering for dad, strangers cheering for strangers, and a quiet comfortable morning that could only lead to afternoon.