the slightest drizzle,
the random rat-a-tat
of raindrops on grass blades
bent, snapping at the tip
like hipsters

leaves shape small trampolines
upon which the raindrops somersault
albeit tiny bounces

and I am afloat on a miniature barge
with a sail on a makeshift mast
lost in the puddle there
down beyond the swirl of the eddies
where darker water flows,
where the current picks up speed –
clean, clear
manic speed

gliding – a downhill racer through the calm crest that lasts only a moment
to the fall that never ends

in a froth,
an oxygenated frenzy
(all a-bubble)

I am no more than the sum
of the rain and the stars
that comprise me

it had started
as such a light rain

Chagall 2019