A Study

the rain was small, but frequent. it pattered on the windshield with tiny footprints of splashes, but they were everywhere. bombardment. attack. ambush. no. the assault wasn't hostile. it was calm. it made no sound; the only sound heard was that of the tires wisping across pavement. and the cars buzzing past. on account of our [lack of] speed. mostly due to the tractor trailer in our lead. but the rain isn't letting up. it picks up frequency at the expense of volume. smaller footprints landed across the windshield with even more minuscule spaces between. windshield wipers can't keep up. they are too busy keeping their 4/4 time, though it isn't quite the same tempo as the music blasting. Dogs. by Pink Floyd. the wipers are keeping a good meter, but their tempo is terrible...probably around 10 beats per minute too slow. it makes for terrible synchronicity. and they cant keep up with the footprints. expelled droplets ripple out from beyond the reach of the wiper arms. waltzing gracefully along the constant forty-five mile per hour winds scraping across the glass. dancing in waves. a ballroom of footprints, racing each other to the end of time. taking their time. tires cross yellow. more yellow. such a soft ballet of carelessness, of freedom. so much in fact, i neglect my own duties. the droplets expand in bright white. their dances lit up in the night sky with such radiance, a spotlight. a headlight. this isn't a dance. this is an assault. i close my eyes and rest my head on the pavement.