River Brown

The strawberry plants with white blossoms and tiny green fruits are waiting for the rain.

The bare patches of dirt where I dug out weeds by the front sidewalk and the London plane tree are waiting for the rain.

The banks of bright and dark clouds in the east are piled up waiting for the rain.

The tight buds on the cherry and apple sway on stems that are waiting for the rain.

The newly pruned, or shall I say, scalped redwood tree is waiting for the rain.

The frisee lettuces are waiting for the rain.

Birds have left the air waiting for the rain.

The afternoon waits.

The chances are waits.

I have walked the neighborhood waiting for the rain.

Vaguely worried people staying home all day are waiting for the rain.

People like me with dirt farming in my DNA are waiting for the rain.

The afternoon is too quiet waiting for the rain.

The rain is waiting.

For what?

[note: I posted this at 2:34 PT and the rain began at 2:35]