Optimistic and absent-minded, they shake it off and scramble up on four legs. They're piling up in my yard and finding their way to my back porch. I can hear the scratching and pawing at the sheet metal lower half of the screen door. I pull the blinds, check the cabinets for kibble, and hope for the skies to clear. Rain paints the streets a metallic black, reflecting a lost city in the suburban backroads.
Skyscrapers rise in the asphalt, cut off mid-rise by the curb.
Pedestrians in trenchcoats hurry up the sidewalks, their faces obscured by ripples in the water. They look into puddles, in which they see the glistening leaves of trees rustling in the breeze on a road in a town they've never been to. Rain taps a percussive beat against the storm windows of my house. Raindrops ping against the metal of the screens. Wind plays the strings of the telephone lines and flutters the flowers, grass and leaves on my front lawn.