Yesterday.
A wandering eye above the horizon would find itself to be the very eye of a storm, a silent one. The patch above is blue and white, the rest of the sky adds gray to the mix in varying quantities; sometimes smooth and sometimes stark. In some places, descending down, the colors paint a worn out curtain, filtering the golden rays; a distant rain. The storm blinks and a spray makes the concrete surface come alive. A thousand dark eyelids blink on the cement gray for a while before they get together and start reflecting the sky; heavens, above and below. The black kites hang around in the drizzle longer than the crows which prefer to perch on a frond as the wind gathers strength. By the time the kites disappear into the black of the rain clouds, the noise from the splattering on the fronds overwhelms their rustle in the wind. The rain makes everything vibrate; you can attempt to close your eyes and see with the sounds.
It rains almost everyday. Even for a landscape with no visible mountains, sitting high on the plateau, the weather is pleasant and varies mostly, only in degrees of comfort.
Now there are only thinned silver streaks launching into the puddles. Soon, the palm squirrels may come out; walk on the cables, upside down for a distance; climb vertically up the parapet, several times their body length; and gather a handful of food, kept by a neighbor as an offering, and munch on it for minutes. The eye is open again. There is a spotlight on the east and behind it, on a gray canvas, kites bask in a rainbow.