The Day When It Rained

The rain came and soaks the street.
People are out school shopping not worrying about the cold dreadful weather.
There are brown tree leaves resting on the ground because of the coming change of the season. Fire trucks and cop sirens spotted half a mile away rushing to an accident that occurred across the street.

Two trucks collided.
One truck appeared to be a Key Food truck.
The other truck was a plain truck painted white with no business logo, only graffiti tags it had, covered on both sides.

Across the street where I stood, next to a
Caucasian woman, with trimmed blonde hair, sipping from a plastic bottle of Evian water, speaking English with a distinguish accent:

"Jeez, crow, what a catastrophe.
Gosh.
Anyone survived?
This is far worst than crossing the street being hit by a drunk driver that speeds."

I replied,
"Always an accident on that corner.
Church Avenue is a busy avenue.
Most of the traffic runs on Flatbush Avenue into Church Avenue."

"Look someone is being pulled away from one of the trucks," she added, before wiping a drip of water off her chin.

Conversation ended.
She slipped away among the crowds and went her separate ways like I did.