A good sunday, or as good as they come. Took a stroll in the rain. Such a typical sunday activity, a sunday way to distract the mind. The earphones stayed unused in a pocket. Didn’t mind the silence, not this time. Walked the way by the water, over the bridge and into the park, following the water all the while, always following the water. “Walk, walk, walk, to the water… walk with me a while” Now, how did that song go again? Went to the harbour, walked by the canal into the city garden. The old houses on the other side of the canal looked outlandish in the rain, reminiscent of grand southern villas by the bayou or some small english manors from a century or two ago. Did the rain pick up? Couldn’t tell. Still had to pause by the overgrown lavender bushes, the dilapidating dahlias, the fallen chestnuts and the blushing colours of a Japanese maple, all so magical somehow in the rain. The clicking, dripping sounds of rain all around. Fall is coming. Fall is here. The thought brings grief, but there’s pleasure too. In the rose garden, staring at the few flowers that remain, their heavy heads making the stems lean and sprawl, and it’s just a matter of time and weather before that flower too looses its petals in a spectacular way, scattering all over the place, crazily, magnificently. Briefly tug on one of them, index finger and thumb, just to try. It doesn’t yield. Such a heavy fragrance. Let it go.