Rhythm in the Eaves

Rain struck the flags with sudden force, scattering fine grit across my sandals. I withdrew beneath the clay-tiled eaves of an open stone porch. Bracing my back against the masonry, I sat upon a dry beam of salvaged timber. Water dripped from my crest and ran along the contours of my greaves. With a deliberate swipe of my thumb, I cleared the wet film from my scabbard's leather wrap. Ahead, an unbroken stream fell from the roof ridge into a split terracotta basin, striking the clay with an unyielding, measured cadence. I kept still, letting the shower pass.