we looked up into the clouds
to see the picture
                                                               

Mother scratches
Her daughter's back
At a bus stop
While the cars
Fly back to the suburbs.

This,
As the older cats hang around
The bus stop 
Talking some trash.

Discreet whispers
&
all the humid hue
clinching on the felt tip of a moment
soaked through and by.

Yes,
The trail of birds going by
In armies of silent flapping wings
As
The gallery of chimes in the building beside all of us
Goes
Ring - on - ing

Like there was something
In
The falling rain.