Now the clouds scurry, rushing to reveal unexpected patches of blue. Amid the downpour, shafts of sunlight emerge from silvering ramparts, making the streaks of rain sparkle and all the puddled pavements shine. Shards of sky fall to earth, the streets full of reflections, and chirping birds fly through the rain. The drops grow fewer, and sun-warmed vapor skims the streets and rooftops. Broken clouds become white ghosts of the storm, dissolving in brilliance, fleeing the sun, opening vast swaths of blue.
The wind fails, the rolling thunder vanishes into the revealed mountains, taking refuge among the gray masses which linger there to make a last stand against the advancing light. Still, there is the sound of rainfall. The eaves of houses, the pine needles, the not yet fully leafed mulberry twigs, are all beaded with festive drops which fall glittering to the ground. The sun-streaked woodlands appear to be emerging from an icebound state, drenched with shimmering falls of water and light. The flowers begin to open, greeting the belated sun. Puddles reflect the sunlight, and the reflections flicker on walls and fences as rippling streams of light, flowing toward evening.
