I was waiting patiently at an intersection with my bike when it happened. My eyes were gaping wide not looking at a tree until I felt the tree was looking at me. It was queer, each leaf seemed to stand. I watched as one by one, the leaves quivered, clarifying themselves, choosing a green different from the others. I wheeled my bike across the street hearing its clicking spokes and dead leaves dragging their bodies after me. As I reached the tree, the nebulous currents in the air sighed and I held up my fingers, watching the first drops bleed onto them. I looked around me at the world being stitched in silver thread. The cool strands melted into the warm flannel of my shirt, pooled between my lashes and I felt the wet cord of hair wound around my head become heavy. My hand outstretched, listening to the tin trickles on my bike, I wondered if this thing which happens too much in certain places and not enough in others is like the thing so many wait for and others do not believe in. If it does exist, will it be like this before the time comes? Will we each get a moment to be individual? To stand, naked and trembling at attention?