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Day turns overcast,
breezy,
as rain nears.
Thunder
clears its throat
as if getting ready
to respond
to
my thought
in dialogue.
I almost wrote,
"the rain wears
transparent blue tinted
gauzy water gowns,"
but
now I'm not sure
how to paint
this deep voice
so masculine—
the rain's companion
wants to be heard first,
issues
a warning,
sounds a roar,
drum roll,
"The rain comes!
Attend her with
reverence due.
Without her
what
would become
of you?
Your laborious fields?"
The sun is jealous
at having to share the sky
with the clouds—
its
cohesive mass
so easily dominated
by such insubstantial
inarticulate
puffs and swirls
of air.
The tension
is tremulous.
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