In the silence of the evening
A cry is heard-
A yell of thunder
Echoing across the city.

As it roars like a great maned lion
The rush of water is heard.
The rush of rain.
Sifting down onto the city:
Freshly cut drops,
Round,
Shining.
But gravity pulls them fast,
Turning them to tears.

And in that rain,
Freshly made,
A girl stands.
She stands on the corner.
Not a particular corner.
But a corner with a house,
A yard.
A simple corner.

You see her,
Drenched,
Soaked through her skin,
Flashing like a
Black and white film
With every burst of lightining.
Shaking...
From the cold?
From the crashes of thunder?

She's unmoving.
Standing.
Shaking,
Only so slightly.
No sound but empty
Neverending patter,
The patter of the drops,
Fresh drops,
On the street.
On the houses.

Her cheeks are red,
Her nose,
And her eyes are too.
She stands.
Unmoving
in the rain.
Long dark hair draped in strands,
Soaked,
down her back.
All she does is stand.
Staring at
The ground.

Or is she listening?
There is nothing to hear.
But the patter of the fresh
Drops.

Nothing at all.

And you'll never know.

Never know
For sure,
Why she stands in the rain.
Soaked.
Shaking.
Flashing,
Like an old film.

The drops,
The freshly cut
Rain.
Runs down her face,
Her hair,
Her whole body.

Crashing thunder
Can silence
Sobs.
Cold wind
Can cover
Shaking.

And
Freshly shaped
Rain drops,
can hide
freshly made

Tears.