The net before the stationis taking in rain.Something white has slipped out a little;only the knot stays black.
The first bus is still below the hill.Vending-machine blue trembles on the water,and one drop hangs from an umbrella rib.
A person in white shoesholds a newspaper to their chest,goes on once,then comes two steps closer.They tuck the end of the knot back into the net.
They wipe the water from their fingerson a sleeve.No one lifts their face.The bus window blurs in rain.
A crow on the roofmoves only its neck.Red taillights vanish past the corner,and the four corners of the net sink slowly.
The next morning it is gone.Only the net holds water, low as before.Unlike other days,I walk two steps nearer.