A cloud blindfolds the sun,
its pregnant core black
and rotting with rain. Trees, skeleton hands,
reach up vainly to touch its imminence -
or is it in a strange perverse worship? Suburbia is spread
beneath a vast dark ceiling,
a grotesque model of peace,
and the first drop slides through the air.
But Mother Nature has a way of forgetting
and the false start leaves the cloud still hanging,
in the sky -
not threatening, just sleeping
like some wild beast.
(The air cries against our skin, warning, pleading - rain!)
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