Crystal raindrops line up under the arms and back rests of park benches, under the bars of gates, and the branches of shrubs and trees; each is a temporary hemisphere reflecting the world, or half of it. I think about raindrops as I walk across the Grove without coming to any conclusion, and they hang there in my thoughts waiting for gravity to call them down.
Outside a restaurant on table, like a piece of sculpture, is a motorcyclist's helmet. No sign of the owner. I pause for a second to contemplate it. Then I spot the owner tending his machine a little further on, on the pavement. "Hullo, mate," he says.
On the shining black trunk of a tree in the persistent drizzle, the strange flower-like shapes of lichen spread like circular green stains.
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