Could this, perchance, be how it rains?

Not within the clouds, but far above

A whispering sound, harmonic strains

Against the coo of the mourning dove

A river wide, flanked by verdant hills

Trees and fronds lay still in the breeze

In the distant, the calls of the whippoorwills

Telling tales, as assuredly, they tease

For they know the secret, hidden so well

When the banks of the river do sigh

Water pours down from a heavenly cell

Tis how rain really falls from the sky

©2021 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
Image by Iván Tamás from Pixabay