Sunlight passes over the sidewalk blocks where cherry blossom petals have fallen and stuck. The duck's shadow still lingers on the water, and a single leaf slowly crosses between them.

The reeds by the water must be getting rained on too. On mornings like this, when a wet gleam lingers where petals have fallen, even the ducks would bow their heads.

On the way out of the subway station this morning, a pigeon stretched its neck over a puddle of rainwater, looking at its own reflection.

On a rainy morning in the market alley, rainwater pooled at the edges of plastic crates, holding still instead of flowing.

A petal is stuck on the wet pavement. I watched it for a long time from the front door.

On the way to the market early this morning, a bus passed over the asphalt where yesterday's rain still lingered. The yellow traffic light flickered in the puddle and was gone.

Sitting on the stairs in the morning rainy season, I was tying my wet shoelaces. Before the rain had even ended, a ray of sunlight came down along the wet railing—that memory suddenly comes to mind.

The walking path is quiet, perhaps because the rain has cleared. I also stood for a long time looking at a single fallen petal at my feet.

In front of the morning market, a rain-wet plastic bag rose once in the wind, then settled back down.