Rain Hound

The sky is open.
It is falling.
Rising to the fill
the void
a hound of rain
has the sun’s lightning
for his eyes
and pouring from
his shackles shivering
vestments silver-grey.

The sky is down.
The hunter is hunted,
closing in
nimbostrata
on a swift torrential day.
The catch is down.
The land is sad as its clouds.
The hound is washing,
washing his paws
in the rain.

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