Remembering Returning From Volcan During Rainstorm

We were all

strangers, to eachother

Mostly. Crammed together

on the tour bus

staring out the windows

lush volcan mountains twisting by

pure silence, an afternoon of twisting roads and winding lanes

and then

a sudden pattering

all ears pricked up intently

smattering glassy windows

blur like ocean waves

wipers squeak and squeal

the air tingles, alive with rain and strange

the kinship, suddenly

the group, united

a submarine of pilgrims

a strange country, strange language,

sealed by the rain



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