Camela
The drops bead like tiny jewels on the windshield. They glimmer, new, fresh, drawing the soot of yesterday down in streaks to the abyss of the wiper reservoir. We are going in for the day. It will rain washing the drops, all drops. Those things we've dropped. The water that the sky has dropped. All the discards of the day, the rubbage of the night. But the things that drop are also the anxieties of yesterday. The drops release me to the freshness of a new day. My intention is clear, like the shimmering rain on the glass. Clear upon clear.
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