when the rain came
the grasses had already given up, dried yellow bodies all tilted back as if offering themselves to the behemoth sun.
there had been two small fires. one accidental, put out with spit and smothering. the other dissolving trees in its wake, sprouting beads of sweat that made maps of tributaries on our skins.
some swore up & down they saw clouds sagging so heavy they touched the rooftops.
the birds were confused. they had enough false confidence to continue singing through the storm. unlike the rest of us, too tired to pull strings from our golden glowing throats.
the cat gave birth. she gulped cold rainwater from our cupped hands.
we stood open-mouthed in the field.
we begged the sky for more.
we kissed the muddy ground and said we know, we know, and doesn’t it feel good to not be so alone.
Robyn Campbell received her BA in Fiction Writing from the University of Pittsburgh. She currently lives and works in Philadelphia, where she makes/drinks/sells a lot of coffee. Her work has appeared in Caper Literary Journal and is forthcoming in Prairie Wolf Press Review and La Patasola Press's anthology of female east coast writers.