I can see her struggling, pushing desperately against the wind. She looks like a tiny mushroom fighting her way across the park. Her umbrella wobbles and dances quickly to the left. The trees bow to her as she passes and the rain teases her with slaps and showers. The wind pulls her puppet strings until she loses control of her feet. The umbrella flips sporadically and a gust whips up her skirt. I can’t see, but I wonder if under her hood she is laughing, or perhaps she’s blindly cursing the storm, angry at how it got her this time.