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.

-Rich Accotta-Evans

April 21, 1994