Rain

The rains are coming. Torrential downpours soak me to my very core. They are preceeded by giant, jet-black clouds sprawling over the sky with claps of thunder so loud that they make your bones judder. Then it falls in walls of wet that makes the streets flood and puddles gather where new rivers met to soak your feet in waters deep. The rains are coming.

The rains are coming. People run for a dry sanctuary but they are saturated in ten seconds flat, the rain beats beat down on their back, thunder so high it sounds like it attacks the sky, it’s at your back, splash in a puddle and run for cover, count the seconds from the flash to thunder. The rains are coming.

The rains are coming. It makes a soothing sound on my roof like I’m in a giant marracca and the proof that the thunder and lightning crashing proves as adequate accompliment to the rhythm and the movement of the friction filled orchestra in the skies. The rains are coming.