It’s a slow dispersal, like raindrops down a window pane. Pausing, as if in thought. Joining and branching, then disappearing.
Scattered, like a rain that grows with sleepy reluctance.
Then a rush, the storm that finally thunders its presence. Winds and howls that stop you in your tracks, and clouds that impede your journey.
Every morning, a yawning procession.
Morning thoughts on the bus ride to work.