Well the rivers were running downstream and the hill was bending toward the sunset
then the night was coming and crickets were chirping
the earth was going around the sun like a slingshot
and then the morning arrived
its eerie stillness hung like the edge of a feather.
Then the fog was lifting and the heat of the day was settling in
I was leaning on a leaf gleaming in the sun,
being a water drop not quite set yet,
about to fall, for, due to gravity, suspended I could not remain
I was ready to tip topple over like a drop of rain
Due to the drought
the cracks in the dirt were wide open, like the mouths of those who blame.
Water I am, and fall I may. I am not rain.
Yet I know
although I'm made of dew-- to the scorched earth I am all the same.