by Alyssa Agerton
Children anticipate warm Pennsylvania
rains. Meandering over misty hillsides,
against backdrops of azure-amber
sky, a product of the rising sun. Rain
cloud creeping, as if connected to the dawn,
wet drops fall, dripping down necks,
navigating their way over spines, back
and forth like the laziest of rivers,
pools of water gathering to play
on scalps and shoulders, soaking
into sweaters and purses, compelling
early risers to scramble for shelter.
Nearby, in a small town where
the county fair rolls in but once
a year, the rain is signaling for its
brothers: thunder, lightning.
Stampeding over hills, declaring
their arrival with fanfare music
like that of a dozen cookie
sheets escaping the hands of a clumsy
grandmother to clamor to the floor.
Mothers teleport onto porches, hands and hips
connected, to call in their flocks. No puddle
jumping with electric currents running in the air.
Everyone: gather bright yellow rain slickers,
yank on hand-me-down rubber boots. Distribute
charcoal striped and lavender dotted umbrellas.
The rain has settled contently in between the hills.