Highway War Sings Silent Poetry
And so it was that the gully washer came with due warning. Falling off old tin roofs, the rain cut white lines through the sky. Around a red, rusted water tower, the staccato chalk marks swirled through the tower's red, rusted appendages, each wrapped delicately with lazy kudzu. No longer squinting from the noon sun, I breathed deeply - it smelled like relief. My tired arms, my weary legs, my empty lungs each sang softly on their own, praising the torrential outpour of the skies. Water of the heavens replaced sweat on my forehead, liquid for liquid. Before I could count, there was thunder. The flashing air was familiar, like senseless photography. At ten, I hear rumbling, and feel safe - two miles away.
And so it was that the gully washer left when expected. Relief can only be so brief, for there must come toil and later, greater relief.
And so it was that the gully washer left when expected. Relief can only be so brief, for there must come toil and later, greater relief.