The clouds grow dark and dimly lit.
The sky hides. The sun quits.
The falling tears of angels come,
Snow as well; the storm isn't done.
The field across me brightly lit,
By the mark the lightning hits.
Any flame quietly muffled.
The trees not even ruffled.
Sunny day are not what I wish for,
This is much better than summer's store.
Behind me, the flooring creaks,
While the screen door squeaks.
I sit here thinking, quietly,
As I'm approached by my Nonie,
She says "Dinner is almost done
The rain's too dreary for you little one."
"I'll be in soon," I reassure,
But the rain's only dreary to her.
