A High Rain

Yesterday was hot, it nailed its peeling skin to a desiccated air. This morning, rain is falling, but it has yet to land - a weightbearing sky creaks though it does not break. Above straining clouds a dam has broken, perhaps the deluge will crush all before it, but not yet, earth’s frying pan is lit and smoldering. The wilting dawn cannot wash its face, bedsheets smell of damp dogs. The electric fizz of insects scratches at our drowsy minds. If I shift a sweat leached inch I might tilt the world over a hidden seawall drowning in the middle of a dry prayer for rain, or perhaps soon the light might undress itself to leap into the clear pools of our openly grateful eyes.