Rain Dance in the evening

Water sheets and slides, down from the clouds, along the ground, skipping and pearling and pooling as it insinuates its tiny floods into each corner. Street light drops to the road and is flung back against the wall; hapless reflection off the water cruising by, adding its decorator touch, with slicks of shine a counterpoint to darkened soil, damp fabric, hair once silver dark and slick against the head.

Skins gleams and ripples, horripilating in the sudden chill beneath the tropic sky now drowned, a deep twilight sapphire shot with grey silk and pink shards of sunset low in the west. Eyes, uplifted, blink and push the world's own tears along the line of cheek, running to the corner of the mouth where tongue tip, pink and stealthy, lurks to taste the air.

Soft, sweet water, born of clouds, of dust from Africa that swathes the skies and brings the taste of harsher sunshines rich with blood to titillate the modern savage dancing here feet bare, skimming over gravel with smooth and practised grace; linking steps to heartbeat, throb of eldritch frog sound while the hiss and thud of rain song sets the rhythm with fat smacks of lucent impact on the ground, the walls, the metal, plastic skins of cars and canopies, man's mark on Nature's compound.

Arms and body stretch and coil, scribing shapes and sigils against the palette of the sky, dance mindless and directed by archaic rules laid down when time first dawned and bared feet marked their tempo on an uncomplicated ground. Souls flung into movement with fierce and wondering joy celebrating life.