The arrows of rain are silver-shafted, fletched in grey.
The skyscrapers’ steel frames are sketched in grey.

Each thunderhead drifting across the hem of the day
is whipped water vapor, shining white and edged in grey.

Each drop is a silver nail driven into the clay
pinning down the world, intaglio etched in grey.

The fuzzy-gold goslings are ready to make their way
south on powerful pinions newly fledged in grey.

The rainbow was once a promise, or so they say
but God’s raindrop kisses are life being pledged in grey.

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