The rain is coming. Giant clouds amass
Above his head, which from them finds no shield.
He stands exposed, enclosed by endless grass
With nothing near to cloak him from their yield.
He runs the lengths and widths of God’s terrain
To find a cave or den in which to hide.
He gasps for air; he’s searched the land in vain
While ‘gainst his head some chilling drops collide.
He builds a shelter out of sticks and stones
And lies beneath it, aching for some shade.
Yet shabby twigs and leaves could not postpone
The waters of the sky, to soon cascade.
The rain has come and he’ll be soaked, it seems.
He does the only thing he can: he screams.