They fall from the sky,
Like a bird that can’t fly,
As they turn from vapor to liquid.

They drop to the ground,
With a slight sound,
Like a pin hitting the floor.

They gather and become one,
And glisten with the sun,
In low spots of potholes or ruts.

Then one drop at a time,
Without a sound, like a mime,
They evaporate and float away.

Up and up they rise,
Too high to see for the eyes,
Into the great blue above and beyond.

Then once again,
They condense and begin,
The never-ending cycle they’re in.