A Morning for Folding the Umbrella

A dark morning; whatever the sky is grumbling about, the wet window says it instead. In the entryway, the umbrella sits like homework. When I open it, small footsteps patter overhead. At an hour when I'm not yet fully awake, that's oddly consoling. But every time I turn a corner, there's a moment when I'm the only one holding an umbrella. Everyone else is simply accepting the sky, and I feel a little sorry for dodging it. So I fold the umbrella. That instant, someone behind me opens theirs and brushes past my elbow.