Afternoon Storms

The gentle breeze,
rustles through the trees,
along the ground old
leaves, crumpled papers,
freshly cut grass clippings all
toiling along with wind,
creating a symphony of the city,
little sounds, each from
different places, all a
part of someone, dreams
attached to every one,
then single drop of rain,
begets another and another
until the pale concrete
turns black like the night sky,
washing away the day's work,
that smell of a wet sidewalk,
after a warm day, fills the senses
with new, a new chance, a clean slate,
the power of each drop,
splashing against the face of the
downtrodden, stay here now,
under the torrent, under the thunder,
crashing like a thousand shields
stare into the lightning, into the
eyes of Zeus, and the fear
dissolves as the storm passes on,
and all that's left is a
clear mind drying in the sun.