First the soft stuff, like stir fry on the lawn
Or a drummer brushing his snare.
Then the pellets rapping the roof,
Punctuated by rim shots, metallic in the gutters.
After that, lightning mapping the rivers of the sky,
Searing them to the eye sockets in photogravure.
And thunder, like barrels on a wooden floor
Rolling, rolling to a distant storage.
Finally: wind, shaking loose the trees,
Airing out their hidden leaves,
And a chestful of oxygen drawn in,
The first breath, it would seem, in years.
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