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Ravi Shankar

Overhead, massed gases grow ever grayer,
blotting out shafts of light from reaching
the fern-gorged, trunk-spotted forest floor.

The rain, once it begins, wavers in rate
and pitch, moving from full pour, to mist
of droplets, to lightly cascading sheets,

never stopping entirely, turning branches
of the taller trees into makeshift canopies
that, once a critical volume is surpassed,

will dump rainwater in a whoosh that turns
damp soil even boggier than before. Awash
in mush like coffee grounds. Soaked sounds.

Ravi Shankar

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