When rain is no longer rain, when what is left is only a puddle, the colour of the dirt around it, that sees the patch of unencumbered sky that still clings to it, the sky it does not recognize as sky, what then is left for the clouds to say? What of the puddle stained pink by the flowers around it? And what of the one stranded in the middle of the street, watching the flash of soles that hop across, the undersides of trucks that rush past, uncaring: is there a hierarchy of falling, of chance, of stilled rain? And what of the one just out of the shadow of that tree, where the woman stands alone, her eyes empty, her clothes wet with the failure of escape, all her longing pressed into the lines on her brow, ordinariness in her swallowed swear, in the line of her shoulders unable to hold up the grey sky? What of that puddle that looks up at her, the lady who wants to leave, the puddle that wants to follow her feet? What is left after the rain is no longer rain, after a reflection disentangles itself from a puddle that didn’t know how to hold it?