Wet on the Toe of a Sneaker

While the drops were falling, there was a time when nothing needed holding together. Retying my sneakers after the autumn rain let up, I wondered how long it had been since I'd felt this unhurried. That ease followed me all the way to the reservoir bank, and until the drop that fell from the tip of a reed gathers again as dew, it lets no one hurry. So you stood on the reservoir bank all that while. Last week, after the rain cleared, I took off my sneakers to dry them too, and lay around a long time with the laces loose. It felt like the first time I'd heard the sound of sunlight touching the floor. On the slope of the reservoir bank, a clump of silver grass with wet plumes kept bending in the wind and rising again. A drop fell on the toe of my sneaker in the meantime, and I stayed there a long while. The laces had come fully undone, but I didn't tie them again. While I listened to the sound of sunlight touching the floor, I only tried not to lose that sound, at least for as long as the drops were falling. While the sound of falling drops died down, the wet on the toe of my sneaker seeped into the wind off the reservoir. Until the wet that ran between the reeds gathered again as dew, only the sound of the drops remained there.