Rain

before the silver mountains wet with rain
while in it's standing o'er the boulevard
a green and golden palm sways silently.
The sounds of automobiles hum below,
and low-above the black clowds smother full
what far white Sun this cold December gets.
A line is drawn from eyes to windowsill
across the empty boulevard and then
hitting upon the palm the gaze extends
to farther mountains buried in sky.
All trickled with the spotted dark of trees
and hazy rain like fog blocking the view
the mountain lies groaning in age and waits.

A shadow casts over the desert palm.

The small sun flickers, quickly, then goes out.

A hush falls fast over the concrete streets
And silence precedes nothing but a storm..

Behind the buildings builds a rainy gust
that bellows from the stomach of the storm
with moans of winter's agony it shakes
and fills with leaves and drenching water drops.
Then like a valve brimming to overflow
the dark sky rattles menacingly so,
Then with a crack she opens up her mouth
and spitting, bubbling, sends her fury down!
In sudden downpour carried by the earth
a heavy rain begins to swell the air.
The palm raises its green and whispy shields
as great round drops begin to beat with force
upon her sturdy, pole-like countenance.
And in a rush like silence in the night,
the mountain disappears behind a veil
of sideways glass now falling from the sky.

Behind the windowpane the eyeline blurs
into the flurry of a million silver pebbles.