Waiting to Rain

Grey underbellies of clouds weaken the sun and trees whisper that the air sweats. If I were an archer I would shoot the heavy clouds with a feathered arrow and watch the water pour from that one gash, like puss from a blister. Or if I were a bird I would dive upward, piercing the grey with my beak and drenching my body, swooping in and out and in again and peppering the clouds with holes that would release rain like a sieve. It is waiting for me to rain.