After it came tumbling down
in fat, wet drops that made us sprint for the barn,
the rain stopped.
And we walked outside to see
the most beautiful rainbow
arching across the pitch black sky.
Then I blinked, and it was gone,
leaving in its wake a sky,
turning blue with puffy clouds.
And the only signs that it had rained
were the rushing of the gutters
and the puddles on the soaked grass,
the muddy, wet feet,
the patch of sky in the puddle,
and the buzzard in the tree, drying his wings.
(This was a late afternoon poetry inspiration that came to me as I walked to the chickens. A surprisingly unexpected post idea for me. I think the beautiful day went to my head.)
