I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going

I walked to work in the rain this morning. It wasn’t heavy; it was raindrops that hang and fizz in the air like lazy flies and settles on your spectacles.

Bees are afraid of rain, of the darkening skies. Their wings get wet and heavy and they can’t navigate without the sun. Snails like the damp; they do most of their work in periods of high humidity. 

I was the first in to the office. The breeze coming in through the yesterdays open windows pushed against the door as I opened it and for a moment I mistook the dripping of the raindrops on the ledges for fingertips on a keyboard.

Sometimes when I type I murmur the words until I realise the voice is not internal. I once saw the Milky Way stretching out across the sky like a great shining snail trail.

Mr Tambourine played in my room this morning, and again in a café when I bought coffee in the afternoon. The rain has stopped, and now the staccato hammers of the workmen outside are tapping out their beat to the cutlery, glass on table, cup on saucer, rattle on the eardrum.

My bike is chained outside, most of the way home I’ll be freewheeling. Let me forget about today until tomorrow.