So many stories on a sidewalk after it rains. A strip of cement that connects one house with another, swept bare most of the time, but after a storm it's imprinted with what remains after wind and water shift things around.
There's a leaf turned transparent as a scrap of tissue paper.
Another split directly in half, tossed like a torn photograph.
There's an orchid petal plucked loose and carried off, held to the ground by raindrops.
An insect, (some kind of wasp?) that didn't make it through,
and an anole that did, thriving in the heat and the wet, having descended from others that came here on ships, in crates, traveling over one hundred miles, from Cuba.
Snails that have their own version of time and distance, inching around puddles as deep and wide to them as ponds. Trying to get where they need to go before the next afternoon storm,