Rain
The sky has a gun-metal quality that fades from blue to storm-cloud gray without a line— no measure of when the heat will end or the water will arrive— white clouds loom overhead trying to escape before being blown away At night sometimes the rain sounds like air shushing through leaves or a sled sliding over packed snow— it’s hard to tell water from sound It’s hard to tell some things were ever there Raindrops hang on to dust and fall leaving behind tiny prints that shout as hundreds of hands raised into the air— we were here but we turned to mist and faded away