Falling Rain & Floods of Coffee
It's raining out there, not really all that hard, gently warm drizzle that neither smells of earth or city. I love this type of precipitation, a kind unknowing whether it is to fall or float in the air, not really fog or mist or droplets even, subtle indecision, as though one minute fog might emerge or blinding rain could appear. The trees are coated in water, so too the sidewalks and cars and all manner of others--on some blocks great green leaves shed all, sending torrents of their own making to the earth and passer-by below. The mosses that last night were hidden by gloom and dull city lights are thrown in jade contrast to water-darkened roads of bark, places ideal it seems for mosses to grow, yet clear for unknown reasons. I feel sorry for the plants that simply exist behind the walls of glass in this shop, brightly lit from without, bathed in air redolent of roasting arabica, human breath and uncertain bakery aromas; a sad looking fern, a wiry hoya, a fledgling anthurium. I imagine it raining coffee in this shop, acid-etched concrete floors flowing with swelling rivulets of Sumatran roast or pocked with myriad puddles of Tanzanian swill; tiny beaver-like bacteria might rush to build dams, directing life blood to oft forgotten backwaters. I imagine that the fern might sit up a bit, its fronds full of stimulant, its roots coursing with a new-found tonic. The anthurium would fill out rapidly, leaving its pot by the window, creeping up the wall to bathe in the downpour; perhaps throwing a spathe somewhere in the midst of its rapture. Perhaps the inside would mimic the outside, fat drops not really sure if they should fall or just waft to and fro; perhaps cling to greenery or envelop any patron foolish or awed enough to encounter them. It's raining out there, when really it should be raining in here, pushing against the door, rushing away long-hardened notes of coffee and humanity.