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Prise le 29 novembre à 9H45

Eh oui, la pluie. Qui fouette la vitre, gomme et lacère le paysage, le transforme en lambeaux à l'horizontale, noyé, écaillé de pleurs, lisible seulement par le souvenir. Je choisirais volontiers ce cliché pour illustrer les derniers couplets d'une des premières chansons de Bob Dylan "North country blues" :

I lived by the window
As he talked to himself,
This silence of tongues it was building.
Then one morning's wake,
The bed it was bare,
And I's left alone with three children.

The summer is gone,
The ground's turning cold,
The stores one by one they're a-foldin'.
My children will go
As soon as they grow.
Well, there ain't nothing here now to hold them.