And the water shines down.

We’re getting a good soak. A strong rinse. A fast-flowing chatter of drops gushing down gutters. Stampedes beyond boundaries of wet, laden, droopy wishes. Pouring over edges not previously considered.

And then the sun winks through.

My turn! My turn! Me me me! scream the weeds.

Yes, you, too, little Lives, I reply. But goodbye.

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