Drunkards of broken clouds wept
onto night and those without hats.
High winds forced bullets of rain to
windows like snapping fingerprints
only to slide with gravity onto the
sidewalk below.
The ground drank eagerly at first
until soon gorged, directing the runoff
to every low point where a rising began.
Clouds continued to release a worthy
soaking as prayers rose up and streets
flooded.
It’s either too little or too much.
Roger Singer 