The dark roiling sky churns for hours, refusing

to open.

The sky flashes lightning, igniting a barn, but refusing

to open.

The hard earth shrinks, and like a web across the field,

cracks open.

The dust, the stalks lie open under the clouds, almost as if

straining with hope.

Drops fall, singly, scattered, from clouds

bloated with rain.

Then the dark clouds quiet, pull apart,


Again the sun spreads its heat, blazing across the cloudless sky,

almost as if laughing.

About alicebarrett

Small town writer
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