The wall after rain had no claim on me.
It was only the side of a house, darker under the broken gutter, streaked where water had run and stopped. A small nail held nothing. Near the bottom, a patch of old paint had lifted from the plaster.
For a little while, it was beautiful.
Not arranged. Not waiting. Not asking to be made important.
The heat had already begun to take the darkness back.
I stood there until the looking began to want proof.
Then I went on.
Behind me, the wall kept drying.