Parched, dry, dusty and dying, it appeared
laying my head on my pillow and drifting into a dream.
My senses are awakened by the scent of moist earth
riding on a cool and gentle breeze through my window.
Familiar sounds, distant but remembered.
Little pelts on my roof top.
Tiny drops of an antidote for the affliction plaguing the land.
They call it drought. Earth is now quenched.
It has rained.