The beauty salon is closed.In front, the white pot.The soil is dryand crossed by thin lines.Through the shutter's gapmorning sends a little light.
The fish shop beside itis still deep inside.Only the sound of watercontinues in the back.A little water clingsto the apron hem.
I pass oncein front of it.The plant's leavesare facing downward.A paper catmoves in the wind.
The fish sellercarries a hand pail,crouches beside the potin front of the shop,and pours waterfrom a small vessel.
There are no wordsbefore the metal shutter.One line of water.At the tip of a leafone bead of watershines.
In the eveningthe pot remains.Only the soil is dark;everything else is dry.My umbrellais quiet in my hand.