Cloudburst> by Tim Parish

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there is steam rising from the bitumen. i can smell its soft ghost vapours. rainclouds overhead pass away again. birds glean the parkʼs leftover crumbs. modems scream information, talking in non stop binaries. cars flock past in petroleum hordes. droplets landing on windshield and her face crash. trees cheer, waving their limbs in the wind to music of the scenery. auto-electrics blast stereo hiphop communiques. bass rumbles, muffled like censorship within airconditioned windows. the underground murmurs too, with subway transit flowing through. beneath the cityʼs skin. Season lay with her ear to the ground, eyes closed and elsewhere. gentle smile blessing lips. body cushioned upon the grassland sanctuary she had found deep within the ecology of commerce and corporate highlands. all around the city sang its ballad of progress and drummed industrial soundscapes. beautiful in their coarse texture and random monotony. a wall of sound, immersive as any ocean. she drank it in. beads of moisture roll down her skin. her clothes wet and sculptured against the curves of her body, caught in the cloudburst, happily. the water slowly melted down her face to cheek and lips tasted. Clean. She raised a hand from the ground to her breast. feeling her heart. Beating softly. A humble metronome. photo: Ben Mastwyck