Summer Rain The rain pours, she likes the cacophony of sound on pots, the springing ping as they wash leaving her balcony shiny and adrift and a cat who mews at the window rubbing condensation, but she won't care about washing windows and when the sun does smile she'll ruefully wipe a glass, settle herself on the plump cushions and feed a feline wish. But for now, a frown at the rug she left for beating, its sodden heat casting spirals in the air like bellows in front of a fire, while below he blows a ring, listens to the ching and thinks of pantaloons and bulls as he watches, weaves wave, dripping on chipping and the girl who in his eyes never changed
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