by Alyssa Agerton
The air is chilly, but not chilly
enough to push father and
daughter off the weathered porch.
She wraps her hands in the bottom
of her oversized t-shirt,
plunking down beside him.
While they are silent,
the world is not,
their cast iron glider creaks,
water drops plummeting,
the ground awaiting
to suck, absorb, replenish,
puddles forming where
Earth is slow to drink.
Thunder roars over hillsides
to join the rain, now
dive-bombing Earth,
landing hard with thuds and plops.
Brothers and sisters
gathering in birdbaths,
drain pipes, gutters.
Micro rivers forming,
lining the road in front of
their old brick house,
now surrounded by clouds
of creaks, hovering in vast
silence, observing the two
souls who are
observing
the rain.