when the raindrops look like dark diamonds and all people hide

scatters diamonds in a rapid
over the scarce trees in the thick city twilight,
and over the ungrateful pedestrians,


into themselves and what
the mother/wife/housekeeper will say
when they carry their
mud home with them,
than the rhythms of the midnight run,
the organic slosh of the puddles,
and the thousand mirror images
each lamp-lit raindrop

so many pearls –
into the hair, on coat-shoulders;
cold ribbons running wherever
the cloud hands would reach;

rain facilitates,

politely noticing, noting, rewarding
every single leaf
under its wide-spread wing;

rain scatters diamonds, and you
are soddenly one with the trees
and the earth, and the dark
skyward chimneys, and the birds
under the street-lamps
do not prey on your mind
any longer.

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