A fat drop falls, preceding the sky’s cry.
The snail is perched on big, green leaves when he
First feels the coming storm. Slides down to warn
The others. But they neither hear nor care.
A caterpillar’s the only one who
Crawls back inside and waits the rain to pass.
The bumblebee—enraged and fueled with fire,
Flies miles to sting the fly: “It’s all your fault!”
And both dropped limp, two lost before the pour.
Antennae raised, the snail then begs the bugs
To find some shelter. He’s ignored, again.
The cockroaches, pride-filled, remain outside.
And then the rain comes storming down—it wash’s
Both roaches, snails, alike, down the dark drain.
But underground, the colonies of ants
Will scramble as one unit, digging holes,
Protecting larvae from the harsh, cold wind.
Close up above, the spider weaves in rain
And thunder. Falls from sky to dirt are not
Absent of pain, yet up she climbs once more.
It seems like years before the gentle blue
Appears again. The buds are bloomed in full.
Birds chirp once more, with buoyancy anew.
In spring the grainy cobweb stands in whole,
Despite the absence of its spider mom.
Emerging out from it’s contained cocoon,
A butterfly rests on the soft string-web.