Beads of Water

The air outside smelled of wet limestone. I worked the heavy hood up over my ears, tugging the black nylon forward until it sat square. A light drizzle was darkening the pale sidewalk slabs. I stepped beneath the striped canvas awning of the corner bakery and halted. A fine drop fell squarely onto my forearm, forming a tight, clear bead against the coated fabric. It did not soak through. I tilted my paw slowly. The water rolled down the seam, dropped from my cuff, and tapped the brass rim of a street drain. My boot soles held the wet marble without slipping. Solid ground.