Rain In The Window.

I sit on the fourth floor of a tall, narrow building. My jaundiced, plastic desk quietly enjoys the company of the collections of handwritten notes that surround me. My computer, forlorn and lonely in the corner, whistles to inform me of my incoming mail. My incoming mail, in turn, informs me that there is a new spreadsheet available which incorporates enterprise bargaining arrangements into pay scales which are required in order to accurately complete research grant applications.

And so I sit, only half an hour into my day, staring through my filthy office window.

The clouds are ominous in their approach. Whispers of dark grey filter through waves of puffy white, all moving slowly eastward, skimming over the cranes and cathedrals which make up my office view. And I think, will it begin to rain? Shall I do my shopping, shall I buy my bread and spices, now? Or will I be caught in the downpour?

I stare into the glass, peering for drops of rain. I see them everywhere. In every corner of the window, droplets are forming and moving in all directions. But this is not rain, I think. This is light, reflecting on dust which has formed, congealed, married and bred, and found a loving home on the pane.

And so I stare further. I watch as the people walk, and I look for signs. I look to see them hunching, bending, struggling with cheap umbrellas, or covering their heads with yesterday's newspaper. I see a maintenance worker jogging down the stairs. Could he be running from rain? Or does he just have work to do?

Two girls appear, stage right. They're walking slowly, heads lifted, deep in conversation. They are followed by a large bald man, whose drooping head speaks less about the weather than about his casual, forlorn walk, and his dour expression.

So my window does deceive me. So the rain has not yet come.

I should do my shopping now. But then, I should also get back to work.

While the scientists have their eager machines, so much more can be seen just by watching the people who pass by.