On top of Petrin Hilll. Wondering if people were ever shot up here. That's what Kundera said but of course that was during Communism, an impossible time. At the sound of thunder somebody said, what's that and I said the sound of cannon from the fort. The rain is falling in droves, so loudly on top of the cafe tarp where we have taken refuge, the rain drops hammering away at the tarp. It's deafening. We can't do anything-- not dryly anyway. So we wait. Later there is the promise of coffee, of food. Right now there is us in the tables of the blank cafe, no money (no Crowns, at least) no seeing. The rain just crescendoed in its stampede against the top of the shelter. Given the--now softened to a whisper, given the transient nature of this city we could be here for a few more seconds before it stops or we could be here for hours, we'll never know until its done. So we wait. The rains slowing, the sun is trying to steal a glance, a rainbow as clear as day, as clear as I've seen anything that isn't real just formed. Maybe I will step out for a bit and see it...
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