The march of umbrellas. Half stretched
domes against turbulent clouds.
Faces pitched forward. The rhythm of
drops is the exhaust from heaven. It’s a
temporary wash of mankind, touching
coats and hats but not the heart. There’s
a walk of escape to a point up ahead.
People blur the canvas of motion, fighting
against the forces of nature. Everything
is awash in the color of wet.
Modern Poets Magazine 