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Tiny

Mornings when I'm in the gym on the 14th floor, this little white butterfly flies by, outside the window. It always flies off in the same direction; it first rises from floors beneath, shows itself to me, and then proceeds to head off to the opposite building.

Up and down, up and down it beats its wings. A tiny being in a metropolis, strung in between cold uncaring skyscrapers.

It can't be the same butterfly, could it?

waterfall

He said he likes listening to the rain. I've liked watching the pitter patter of drops so eagerly meeting earth, never discriminating hard nor soft surfaces, slippery nor coarse, living and dead; but dismissed the sound as simply white noise. He said so as he cleared the table for our art project--we splattered paint on shirts, the rain behind him like a waterfall curtain.

A headache today. So I was pulling over myself a blanket when the first drops of the lingering gray sky began to chime. The memory of his uttered words ran through my mind, like lighted wordings of an electronic banner.