a start, perhaps, or an end or last tuesday

It was that loud kind of rainy, middle of July. Just the thing our parched midwestern city stayed up the extra hour for. She moaned under the touch reacquainted, like a monogomous wife her buisness-gone now returned mate. Windows were smudged with noses far past the noses' bedtimes. BANG! Sychronous beating hearts. A second smudge. Silence creshendoed to metzo forte droning, "pitter-patter, pitTER-PATTER," as equilibrium returned from the first smudges' leaving. The second grew in expectancy of the impending flashbang, nature's orchestral leitmotif: thunder. All across the city this was happening.

But I, I was displaced. Where everyone, myself included, had been near combustion under god's great magnifying glass and ought welcome the wet as the city did: howling, everyone had not gained and lost all since Tuesday. So, be damned, the children, the city, and the rain.