My true self emerges only now, it seems, when it's been raining
And the sky is dreary gray. There's jazz on, simply aimless
Noodling; nothing pressing I should do. I'm not exactly in my
Home. No cold, blue mountains press the sky. No cold gray
Waters are in view on either side. I have nowhere that I can
Walk, no libraries or grocery stores, no art museums, market
Stalls, but, still, I feel as I did there where I evolved into myself,
A silent, brooding creature underneath a dreary sky.