Smaller than a man’s fist—
hardly worth noting

in the bleach-baked sky.
But it had been years,
month after endless month
of scorching aridity.
Now here, rising from the sea,
barely perceptible, was hope.

The prophet’s heart began to pound.
He gathered up his robe 
and began to run.
The wind whipped at him
and the clouds roiled and congealed
until the dark mass burst into flood.
And the prophet ran on in the rain,
his feet pounding in puddles,
till his hair and beard were drenched
and dripping with the blessing
of answered prayer.

~RDB

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