Rain trills down my window pain
like a scoop of ice cream in the hand
of a three year old on a hot August day.
Clear drops gather on grey branches
as kindergartners do in lunch lines.
Dinosaurs drool in the moist, crisp air.
Dreams are puddles mixed with mud.
Mud encrusts the soles of boots and basements.
Days become weeks.
Weeks become years peering,
through clouded mind and flooded streets
for a clearing.