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.
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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