For seven days and seven nights
Our rain would go on our thatch
Holding the young crows captive
The black almost washed to gray
And the thatch looked a rice field
Sprouting last year’s left over rice.
We have made up the rain story.
The farmers have cast off turbans
And light was not sunny yellow,
Some eerie ultra violet rays touch
Bellies that have no raging fires.
Like girls we have made it all up.