Up on the sixth floor balcony
she stands.
Curls of clouds start to form
across the northern sky.

Deep greys and blues
intermingle.
Waves of clouds
grow darker and darker
and the curls become almost circular.

She is excited by the silvery covering
over the city.
She anticipates spectacular
atmospheric charges.

Her anxiety lessens.
Excitement mounts.

She rushes outdoors
to race with the rains.

She hears a crackling laugh in the skys,
Her rubber shoes make squeaky sounds
on the wet ground.

People look at the ominous clouds
and the cyclists mutter to themselves.
She laughs and laughs.
And then she laughs some more.
The drama in the sky releases
boxes full of tensions.

Large booms of discontent
sound off in the distance.
Streaks of gold explode all over
the late afternoon skys.
She walks through the noodles of rain,
with squeaky rubber shoes,
looking at the curly clouds,
and she laughs...

Her own stormy world is forgotten.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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