The eyes of the beholder.

The skies
give a shout
and upend
emptying
their swollen bellies
and rain falls
hard and swift
collapsing
widening
frothing
rushing the grass
and tree roots.
Leaves
dance and quiver
turn dark
and liquid.
Everything is moist
and alive
and deepened
and breathtaking.
Quenched and soulful.
But a bird,
a lone bird
quiet
vulnerable
with a fast beating heart
under its wet fluff
waits.
Waits for it all to pass.
What is beauty to it
when it has a young one to feed.

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