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 Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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