There's never much rain here
so we're grateful
for the stuff we get.
The clouds collect
in the sky, gray and angry,
as if startled or annoyed by
their own presence.
There's nothing wrong
with seventy seven degrees
nine-tenths of the year.
But watching the unexpected
deluge peppering our streets,
our cars, and the roofs
of our homes, it looks To be
some kind of beacon,
a strange signal, a portent,
not wholly ominous,
that the world is no longer
what we think.
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