Abbas Kiarostami.With each crescendo, another shower of rain began. The eagle swooped in circles, surfing the thermals as the melody of jubilance played on.
The little brown puddles bubbled with the force of the rain drops. It made you want to rip your clothes off and run with the wind.
Ah, the sweet smell of wet earth.
I can feel the faintest caress of the cold wind. The rain continues drumming its quiet beat on the green asbestos awning.
Pianissimo, now.
The frogs will come out soon.
I'm still sweating.
I want to roll around in the dirty puddle. Feel the water.
Saeglopur thunders in my ears.
Running down the road, tripping on the uneven tarring, slipping on the smooth wetness, I will climb down the tree and over the fence, run down the road, past school, past the metro work, past the cars with their a/c's on and their windows up, I run until everything falls away and my own heartbeat feels like a countdown to the end of the world.
I can feel the sweat drop down my neck.
Dance lightly on those black and white keys as you whisper your song.
The stink of sticky human skin. Alive.
The birds are drying themselves off now. In complete synchronization. Weird.
And the world is still again.
Diminuendo.
