I splashed past a flooded orange grove
Fruit bursting with juice hanging low on the branches
And greening around the slits where they have split open
wind and gravity hurling them to the ground,
The normally parched earth shining muckily through rivulets of spring rain
that came down harder than we ever expected.
A wet season, they said. Winter. This winter at any rate.
Puddles collecting at every zebra crossing,
stressed parents manhandling plastic covered prams
And style-conscious ladies flashing designer welllies,
Their annual show, finding excuses to parade through the square,
giggling and shrieking as they sprint to avoid the spray from delivery vans.
They remind me of birds, preening and presenting, using the rain as a weapon
a tool in their hunt.
A long-limbed snowy egret stands alone amidst the fallen oranges
Her eyes sweep the scene, watching vigilantly.
The rain continues to fall. I pass and the moment is gone.
Perhaps she is still waiting there.
I haven’t written a post in a long time. I hope you will forgive the rushed quality.