The dark clouds broke when they collided with the forested foothills.
Fierce rain pounded the high pine umbrellas to genuflect.
Abruptly the rain fell like parachutes onto the pixie cup and red crowned lichens at their feet.
Each pixie stretching to hold one more milliliter until that one next drop exploded the bulging chalice, flinging watery seeds in all directions, a free ride for the seeds, having encircled the rims of the cups and chalices for just this moment.
The soil community welcomed these new ‘chutes.
On the porch below Duff, the Amish guide dog,
raced through the opened door
Screeching his four brakes to a sliding stop,
shook joyfully his soaked fur coat,
Sending his own parachutes onto Ted, his servant, arms open,
ready for a wet dog hug
But not ten thousand parachutes.