A God's game, this is. Each drop, a perfect manifestation of micro-creation. The circus horn of the Heavens rumbles, and eager clouds scurry to catch what they can-joy-blessed children collecting liquid lemon drops on faith strengthened tongues. In the scatter of pattering claptrap, rainfall spills, showering every soul with the miracle of cloud-crumbles. Grandmother Wind watches her babies grow stuffed and exhausted by play, then gently blows them to bed with seven sticky kisses. Her multicolored lipstick smudges the sky's soft blue skin, but no one minds-not God, not the freshly-washed heavens, and least of all-her sweetly-dreaming cloud-children.
Originally written 10/31/2014