Little bullets of water dropping from a gunflint gray sky
Begin sliding the grime and grit, built up from the crucible of summer heat,
From our busy over-scorched lives.
The hustle and bustle of existence is silently muted by the monochrome
Clouds and misty ghost figures haunting the green canopy of the bluffs.
The river lithely caresses its banks and slowly etches its way southward.
Plinks of rain ding upon the river’s glassy mirror, as a heron gracefully glides
Just above the surface, wingtips nearly splitting the reflective illusion.
Under this awning I wait for you to arrive so that we
Can wash the dust of the past from our feet.
Let us hold hands and walk together in the rain.