Microclimates

I hear the slaps from the hands of Gods proceed across the sky. A warning or a welcome? Rain pisses down, lightening strikes, thunder bolts, transparent worms lay still against the wet, marble tiles. I threw my coffee back, a thick black medicine, washing my dreams away. Beside me the fire cracked, moaning with desire. I stomped through puddles, a barricade to our bus, lost but soon found.