At the Pace of Falling Drops

Until the drop that fell from the tip of a reed gathers again as dew, it lets no one hurry. 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.\n\nI was sitting on the bench at a bus stop after the rain, and a drop gathered on the toe of my shoe rolled slowly off. The sky reflected in the glass door was clearing, that far along.\n\nLike that place where I stood still so long, I did nothing at all at the bus stop. Lifting my eyes from the slope of wet silver grass, the streaks of rain on the bus window were flowing like the wind off the reservoir.\n\nWhere that drop rolled off, a mark not yet dry remained. Perhaps I had been walking at that pace too, for the bench at the stop I reached was damp. Beyond the glass the wet seeped through and ran down at the same pace as the drop that had gathered on the toe of my sneaker.