Umbrellas fly up

Paces quicken

Groans emit from large raincoats

As city streets empty

Like someone pulled the plug

Humans retreating into their shells

Tiny and familiar

To sit with a cup of tea

And scowl at the villainous outdoors

Who foils plans and ruins hair

Who muddies the ground and blows the leaves

But as the old and blind withdraw

The children emerge

Eyes unclouded and arms open

They look upward

And catch raindrops on their tongues.

The mud is their playground,

The leaves are their toys.

The outdoors is not the villain in this story,

But the hero

Wild and inviting

Expansive and mysterious

Whose wind whips their hair in glorious halos

Whose fat raindrops dance on their warm skin.

Shoes are abandoned

Jackets thrown off

Puddles attacked with exuberance

As shrieks fill the streets

Until at the door appears a figure holding a cup of tea

And calling

For the children to hurry inside, or they’ll catch cold,

Else fall in a puddle and skin their knee

Like last time.