The new uniform

One foot in front of the other. The puddles play a duet with the holes in my shoes and I dance to the tune. I haven’t seen rain for months. I haven’t seen rain like this for years. The roads have become torrents of brown water. The cars are amphibious. Tidal waves of water explode from the road. I thought that only happened in movies. Don’t wear white. The city changes colour, the sky, the air; both dull as the light is low and evenly shared. There is no spotlight. The sun can’t discriminate under the clouds. Today humans steal the show. The neon lights come alive. The road is blacker and the grass is greener. Some disagree. Taillights burn a path through the grey and headlights at noon make reflections on the road. There is two of everything. Twins. One perfect, one peculiar. Not sure which is which. People scurry with their hands above their heads. Folders and bags become umbrellas. Stopping a freight train with a feather. Two schools of thought exist. To run or walk? The jury is still out. The mountains that surround us have stepped quietly into the fog. Tomorrow the air will be cleaner, and the sky brighter. Tomorrow the mountains will return to their posts. At attention. Sentries on guard. Enveloping the city like a duvet on a cold night. Keeping their city from leaving, keeping their city safe. Tomorrow the mountains will be back with a new uniform. Brighter than ever.