Cry for the Rain
The night lay beyond the window, a black canvas that creaks as it stretches itself across us.
Small sounds erupt from cooling roads and walls, a lone bird stabs its beak into ears listening for the wind, piercing hearts crying for the rain.
We lie draped across our beds, limbs and torsos barely covered by cotton sheets, now thicker than winter's quilts.
Dreams float by, swimming through the chaos of the day, an elephant in your pool, and igloo on fire, an ebb tide your feet never quite splash, no matter how hard you run, run, run.
You wake again to see the dark blue sky, its soundtrack twittering a welcome to the sun.
"Sleep? Why bother?" Head for a cooling languid shower, five minutes of cold heaven: the kettle and the road begin to boil.