I’ve been caught in
   many a sudden downpour.

And I’ve been warned by
   the sweet scent of corn,
     swept in though a
         screen door,
     or over the pasture.

But nothing in my flatland youth 
   prepared me to look down upon
      the underside of a cloud —
   to see its neatly-edged opaque
      wall, defining the area 
         of deluge.

It wasn’t until much later that I’d 
   see the massive cloud columns 
      rising above the base layer
         of a cloud floor — 
      warmly lit as seen from a
   jetliner, though I knew it must
      be brutally gray to 
         ground-dwellers.

The deluge closes slowly,
   and yet I can’t escape it.