The Rain falls upon the meadow.
Shelter under the mud ledge.
Mayfly’s wings dotted with heavy mud.
Chipmunk trembles, wet.
The rivulets have become rivers,
and to jump is now a jaw of an eagle.
Drops drip from the fibrous tender stiff wings of the mayfly.
The eyes of the munk dart across a rush of water
And back to the dank shelter.
“Are you afraid as I am?”
The mayfly turns to take in the warm beast.
“When I fly with mud on my wings I am bound to crash.”
… “But I am waiting for a break in the storm.”
The green was our home.
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