I like to watch the weather clear. Clouds dissipate like the trail of a firework caught in the breeze dragged away to who knows where.
Closed blooms drink in the sudden light. The rain laden grass begins to unfurl like aching fingers finding relief in stretching out.
Water droplets hang in slow suspension, waiting to flow, to fall. Mist clings to the valley with such ghostly charm.
Hills cloaked in cloud rise up, colossal clouds of green. Birdsong fills the air delicate and free. The tall grass clings to flesh momentarily.