everblue junipers caress the wet sidewalk and twigs hug the curb as they float down the street.
tomorrow sand will appear at the edges of the road.
I haven't watered my garden in over a week.
now spear shaped tendrils of liquid hydrogen dioxide plummet down at twenty two miles per hour making patterns across the wet surface of the earth.
in the bright spots rain drop splashes stumble back and forth across the dance floor like cymbal crashes.
wasps, grounded by wet wings, begin their slumber early, jaws locked, legs dangling off the stem of a flower whose petals are battered and wet like fry ready fish.
the newly pregnant ocean swells unnoticeably.
streams emerge, rivers rob banks, puddles form around orangeskin pores;
and the everblue junipers caress the wet sidewalk.