by Thomas Davis
Rainwater falls…
Falls…
Into puddles,
Upon rain-shining stones.
Amidst the stones
A lone white bird
Sings of cherries, sweet and black,
and spring.
You sit upon a stone
In the rain listening…
Listening,
Hearing rainwater
And the bird mingling melodies.
Life is strange,
For the rain, the white bird,
you, and the songs
Form a beautiful image.
The rain…
Falling…
Falling.
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