this tiny gap

at the crossing, the lights all red. the rain falling. forming cirular patterns on the windshield, drop by drop the pools change, expand, thicken, come to a stand still. then they run down, the tiniest version of a river, turning the light green eventually. on the ground, they gather. the cars dash through them, their wheels surfing the street, turning to boats for a second, for as long as it takes to gather grip again.

later, it's her who is lying on the ground. on the second floor. in this room of yoga. the cars, the raindrops, now they are beyond the window. still there, but hazier. "the light is too loud," someone says. so someone tunes it down, while she listens to her breath. the gathering of air, the exhaling. and the gap before the next circle starts. this tiny gap. a word falls into it: Sanftmut.

she turns it in her mind, breathes into it, exhales it, translates it. Sanft-mut. Soft-mood. then, the gap again. and the true meaning of the word sinking in, like a drop of thought, like a zen song. Sanft-mut. Soft-courage. the rain drops heard it, too. see, it's easy as that, they whisper and float onwards, to the next floor, to the deeper levels.
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