The rain arrives,
a cool slicing breath,
and the sky throws on
it gray summer suit.
Gondoliers shout, stitch
their black needles to shore.
Waiters fling outdoor
tables indoors as drops
strike cobblestone,
Venetians and tourists evaporate

but not me.
I run through rainsheets,
across glassy piazzas, fly
over canals. A small witch
without a broom, I bank
around corners as damp
building edges crumble
into my hands. Lightning chases,
explodes in my footprints.
I jump into a pozzanghera
shouting its name.

Kathleen Boyle