It’s Christmas and it’s raining

Splashing waves crash in the port while tourists on waterproof jackets are passing.
In the distance, cars get lost in the curve, of the only street of this village.
They pass.
People pass stepping puddles and passing clouds leave puddles on their way.
Words on the air pass being dragged by mouths while the gulls cut them with their winged passing.
Another day of summer passes. Christmas passes. As this year will pass…
And everything passes…
And one is here, passing or pacing or letting ourselves pass (which is different from letting happen)
And we pass.

And we also are that which sees the passing by.
.

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