black billowing mountains of clouds
erupt across the horizon
the air smells dangerous
the distance grumbles
wind stirs from sleep
in restless fits
followed by foreboding calm
the first pizzicato drops
fall to earth
one, three, twenty
a thousand of them
pelt against your skin
quenching
like steel grown red hot
in the furnace
then plunged into water
hissing and sputtering
quenching the swelter
from a passionate afternoon
in late summer
the two of you lying
by the shore
too deeply lost is bliss
to get up and run
from the rain
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