the biggest raindrops

the moribund  go en masse
stampeding unleashed, wild running free.

an invasion force of filler fellows,

lean, manic decoration. 

but then the real gordos are engaged

beyond the last of the legionnaires,

after the noisy wind has scampered.

during the wee hours usually

when all is quiet.  that's their time.

they are fewer.  the summation.

it seems as regular course that the very
fattest raindrops jump when i'm sleeping.

they slip, or are pushed, off the cloud,

do something like sizzle on the way down;

a faint wet hiss or whistle, a quiet, steady

sound; the only one they make.

soar in solo,  a fly ball into center.

splat what they hit.  there are no misses.

outside my window they zap a plastic tarp

covering the neighbor's motorcycle.

after listening an hour i am conscious enough

to realize what's going on, and predawn

i write lines preserving their integrity 
in recognition of their sonic contribution