Inspiration

He wrote when it rained, visions and people streaking the pages in swift-flowing lines. Ideas fell in showers, in cloudbursts of thought. Words whispered to him in the drumming on the roof, in the patter on the windows.

In summer came silence and drought. 

His pen ran dry and the pages stood blank.

One August morning, he rose early and stood outside in the warming air, and watched the Perseids scratch the skies in eyeblink lines. His face turned upwards, to catch the cosmic dust, and the brilliant fall of a new inspiration.