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The rain falls.

The grey sky opens and the rain falls, and the water flows. 

Into the gutter choked with the winter's filth, the water flows, pools. 

Passersby turn their eyes from the black pools and shudder.

Passerby reach the end of the sidewalk, step into the road, step into deep puddles of water containing unknown substances, soak their shoes, curse their luck.

The grey rain falls and the water flows over blue-grey pigeons, who shake themselves and fluff themselves up to keep warm, as they have done all winter, as they must continue to do, for some time, they know not how long. Endurance is hardest when an end is in sight, for hope weakens resolve.

The grey rain falls on bare trees, who do not shudder, for in the mist of the morning there is no wind. This is the first moments of waking, before thought awakes, as you experience each morning, when you open your eyes at dawn.

This is the grey dawn soaked with mist, after the long, cold night. Rain falls and the water flows down towers, sputters out gargoyles and gutters, drips off awnings and onto your bare head. You do not shudder. You will endure.

This is also spring.