Trana

It’s raining at last, it’s good, the oak tree was starting to yellow. Rain has become so rare here, that it always reminds me of traveling, or the past. I was jetlagged in Toronto once, I was in bed early listening to the rain falling over the High Park, over the trees and water and the skunks in their dens. It’s not the same sound now, nor the same smell, different vegetation of course, distant water, no skunks at all, but sometimes you just don’t care about the bloody madeleine.

And you want to be quick anyway. The rain has already stopped, in fact.

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