It starts with a gentle rumble like the far-off ocean,
And builds to a sweeping wall of clouds.
Tension rises and ghostly feathers prickle
In expectation of the oncoming relief from a still, hot day.
Like waves the front comes washing over,
Spilling over my skin in whispers.
The clarion calls of thunderheads ring out
And shake droplets from their billowing forms.
Smatterings of liquid sky dot my shoulders,
Slipping down my arms along invisible lines.
Thick swathes of iced are tease pinions
That will never catch or hold them.
The drumbeat of rain dances across the porch,
Whips around my perched form.
Showered by clouds;
That’s how the hawk on the porch is cleaned by the sky.