if I were a metaphysical poet, there'd be some deeper meaning here

We've reached the putrid stage of Chicago summer. The weather has been fine, and the plant life is lovely, but the dumpsters and trash cans (sometimes with help from the lake) are winning the olfactory wars here in the city.

There are still some places where one finds relief. On Monday I had the best walk. It threatened rain but I decided I would not mind, and off I went down to the lakeshore path. Just as I reached the top of the path, the rain began. I waited it out a little under an awning and then continued, only to get caught by a more insistent downpour just as I reached a thick cluster of trees. I waited there, somewhat shielded, and watched the rain and admired the lake. There were some people nearby and soon a young man with an umbrella came and stood next to me. His name was Phil (if I recall correctly) and he was the sound guy for the show that he and the others were filming. We chatted and laughed and looked helplessly at the rain. When it finally slowed significantly, I continued on my way.

That's when the glorious thing happened. The sun made a surprise appearance in the midst of clouds and rain and the water, where the sun reached it, lightened to turquoise streaks against dark blue. The drops, where the sun beamed, looked like nothing so much as giant, gaudy sequins heaving along the waves. I was alone along the beach when this happened, and I laughed to see it. All this and just for me!

By the time I reached the top of the path again, I was exhausted and exhilarated. I was utterly spent and near-delirious with joy, satisfied to my bones and eager to do it again.