We find ourselves walking in the rain so often in this city, you and I. We take small, careful steps: you holding the umbrella, me holding the crook of your arm for warmth. The fog is so thick among the trees it is as if the sky had decided to descend upon us. While walking, you tell me that you like the ghostly effect the rain and fog has on trees, and everything else that surrounds it. We pause to look at the flood of houses sprawled along the hillside, asleep in the gentle white mist.
Sometimes I wonder how far we've come on our feet alone. We walk to a park in the middle of the city, abandoned in the rain, and walk under weeping willows--that shed actual, heavy tears--and watch a lone swan boat languish in the lake.
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