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Untitled MAG
Great torrents come splashing down.
Like endless tiny drums,
they beat on him.
I see him now.
Walking as he always does:
in the rain.
He says it's like music to him.
Gentle flutes for the little drops,
Sometimes cymbals for the larger ones.
Walking as he always does:
in the rain.
He says it mingles with his music.
He listens as he walks,
James Taylor, mostly.
Singing with the symphony of drops.
Like a lullaby,
Soft,
Drowsy,
Complete.
The rain is ending, and he is now gone.
Home now,
To me.
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