I hate cities in the rain.

Never mind the cement, concrete, iron, and steel that reject the cleansing, healing shower.  Never mind the pipes and gutters that shuffle away the floods.

I hate umbrellas.

Everywhere I look, people scurry to work, to play, to home, hiding under compact shelters to escape my embrace.  Skirting puddles as if they were lakes.  Avoiding me as though I would bite.

Only the children appreciate the storm.  They duck impatiently out from under their mothers’ umbrellas, turn up their faces to the rain, and splash through the puddles.

I love children in the rain. 

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Another one I did in a notebook in church.  This one because a friend wanted to know what we could come up with for Umbrella.

It was supposed to be an elemental, but then it turned out to be from the perspective of a storm.  So that was interesting.
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