for day on day, clouds hang heavy,
blanket of wool on sticky hours,
people ask, when will it rain?
say, we really need rain.
say, it’s getting sorta scary
all these days with no rain

we, the people of gore-tex and pulled up hoods
(and only umbrellas if you’re a kid, on business or from out of town),
we’re known for endless rain days,
so it feels foreign to long for
bursting open clouds
when we’re still living under the magical sunshine of
summer fall

i don’t say it out loud for those wet months will stretch long,
but i think it and i begin
to pine for the splattering drops,
the spray from under car tires,
the look of ground saturated,

these plants are long-suffering, drooped in fatigue,
and the dirt is dust that clings
to little feet and carpets,
and when wildfires burn uncontained,
we hold our breath and pray and

this morning, when it’s still dark
and we can’t see the clouds,
those awake at this hour smell the air ripe with dirt,
note how it right wafts through the screened window
and how the droplets across car hoods, under street lights
glimmer hope

the light starts to rise up on the day,
and the rain begins to fall softly,
harder then,
splashing decidedly on leaves,
plunking onto parched soil

the drops are a chorus, like the patch-patch-clap rains
we created with our hands and laps in mr. jones’ music class,
surrounded by xylophones and snares and clefs dancing
along walls

yes, the raindrops are music this morning,
wet holy grace notes,
and the earth exhales

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