The weather people know it will be raining. Coming night is blue -- I've written the twilight is blue before, and it is again. If you write about one particular time of evening enough, you'll use the same words, eventually. It might be raining now, I'll have to go look.
Moon like a yellow ball of cotton, the sky hazy and awakening to stars. I hear the metal fabricators, a half block away. The light from there is white, big warehouse doors open to keep cool, almost all year round.
Then suddenly the ordinary parking-lot could be anywhere -- a field in Napa, or out in the desert by Stovepipe Wells or by a meadow next to redwoods in Northern California. Memory raises the tent of perception and the fence is a hedge and the bare earth planters are full of roses or mint that grew like crazy by the stream.
Faces come and go, like lanterns, or a flash of the beam from a lighthouse. I go back in, the warehouse is larger on the inside, larger and larger until it rains.