Acrobats

I like to watch the sky
before a storm when the clouds get restless,
and tiny droplets of water grow sleepy
and nod off drowsily on their heavenward perch.
Acrobats, they tumble
always downward, toward the inescapable earth.
Perfect glass globes cling to individual strands of hair,
and vanish politely with a shake of the head.
Suddenly the shotgun fires
and millions of their giant brothers are running
in a race fueled by gravity, and I try to call to them,
but they want silence and whisper, “Shhhh!” as they beat the ground.