good atlas

Rain falls. From my balcony, everything begins to blur. Trees become dark grey silhouettes, a small bird flutters against the wind. Amid the rolling thunder, a prayer from a nearby mosque. The lonely Muazzin closing the day. I wonder if he wears a face mask while he recites the azan. 

In the rain, only buildings come alive. Houses below turn their lights on. One window after another. On their verandahs I imagine moths fluttering around each florescent light. No one is walking on the street. Not even the dogs. No sun, no moon, no stars. The rain wipes it all into a smudge, and lightning tears it apart. 

Soon, mist will rise from the trees. A sigh of relief. A cold, wet breath lingering on each leaf. This is a sign that the rain has stopped.

Two cars have already left their homes. A motorbike hurries by. The sky begins to darken into night. Dark blue, dark blue, purple, black.