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By Michael Ceraolo

A mid-July night,
and a late softball game
(another loss: we’ve won only one game all season)
Postgame: at a bar on the creek’s shore
Stepping outside for a moment,
I see
a light show taking place over the lake to the north,
a show repeated with increasing frequency
and increasing intensity,
noon come at night,
and
I go back inside to await the rain,
which does come
Time to go, the rain still falling,
     hard,
a month’s worth of rain falling in just a few hours
Now thoroughly soaked,
I walk to the bridge over the creek to listen,
and
what would normally be a nearly dry stream at this time of year
creeping past with a sound you’d have to listen carefully to hear
goes roaring by rapidly in its rain-swollen state
I listen for a few minutes,
then
begin the wet walk home, shoes squishing