Rain, rolling applause,
small hurrahs, thunder like jets
at low altitudes.

Cracks over treetops,
breaking barriers to sound,
with every fly by.

Small parachutists
rotate nimbly in descent,
buoyed by wax paper.

The newer streams rush
most smoothly atop old stones,
clinging to bottom.

I drink from the well,
I’m thankful for underground,
cold artesian pools.

I steam in cold air,
return again to the rain,
to once again pour.

I am a moist wisp,
mostly water and whimsy,
on the rocks, then neat.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013