The wipers sweep back and fourth,
as if they are waving to the clouds
that cry onto my windshield.

Pacing down the highway,
the mile makers pass by.
Over the rivers dried up so bad,
the rain has left an ensuing swamp of mud.

The rain picks up, wipers waving faster.
The radio is on as loud as it can go,
but is drowned out by the rains
syncopated beats.

The highway fills with sitting water,
as the sky lets out its ever continuing sob.

As the wipers wave and the radio plays,
a rainbow appears, stretching out over the horizon ahead.
As an inviting gate, to another land,
soaked with the sobs of the sky.