STRANGE RAIN

by Rich Accetta-Evans

 
Its drum and splash is faster
Than the beat of wiper blades
Which race in vain to clean the glass.
 
It seems not to fall upon us
But to wash against us
As it blows across our path.
And yet the day is bright -
And the sky is all  
A perfect placid blue,
 
Except for that single ragged cloud
Running, dark and angry, toward the sun.