2050 (Sky-oriented People)

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

We — adults of prolonged dry —
have been found out by weather for what we deeply are:
children of rain.
Regardless of the science of the mock-solemn forecast,
when drenching downpours start licking dust off the streets,
instantly, the idiot spectacle rivets us,
the wonder that needs no expert preamble:
water — in effortless vertical seams —
waterfalling down cloud. The sea,
from its Remote Salt Splendour,
sends us — or please RETURN TO SENDER —
these exquisite packages of itself in miniature,
messages to the inland, and to the glittering adventure of rivers, lakes, streams
and creeks
that, profuse and transfusing,
add all their life to ours.
It is a sober attendance watching for showers in cloudless cramped skies,
segmented by air lines, by ambition’s architecture
and at every point crackling
with the irritated heat of engineering’s engines.
Once we deplored those unscheduled interruptions;
the skeletal coldness of flimsy, metal-ribbed umbrellas;
the spatter-animation
of turbulent, rubbish-filled gutters,
but nowdays the nail-biting rain-wait readily consumes us.
It is this fact of life
(like the gift of fresh air,
and like the selfless-active chemical transactions of the trees)
which reminds — against want against wish against wealth against waste —
of Planet Earth’s everywhere unsung elemental battler.

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