A Pillow Book: Parma Without Percussion

The view from my hotel room in Parma; the trees fresh with moisture.

The leaves on the trees are drenched and heavy, glistening when caught by the eager beams of the streetlights. Rain cascades like strings of beads flowing all the way from heaven. When the pouring forth strikes a hot white bulb, it smokes as if to say, “I’m not giving up my heat without a fight.” As the wind pulsates, the leaves shimmer, the droplets taking them hostage as they ornament them in crystalline artistry. It’s the...