Overhead, playing bump tag,
clouds collide
but never do adhere,
their silvery
undersides riding low.
Umbrellas open
but sunglasses stay on
as sunshine slips
through disjointed seams.

The weatherman blandly
described it as
a fleeting sunshower.
I’m old enough
though to still recollect
a livelier depiction,
having grown up when
the Old World
overlapped with the New.

An uncle made the assertion
a fox and bear
were getting married.
Grandma said,
look Child; the devil is
beating his wife.
Language, light, and rain–
each drop a diamond
forged in that amalgamation.

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