Like a child raised on candy store sugar.

Like a boy whose pet is a Slush Puppy and whose girlfriend is a Little Debbie, an obese cloud comes running excitedly toward the fragile farm house as if he had been lost in the cereal aisle of the Green Mountains for ten terrifying minutes. At the hip of the house, he wraps his arms around the shifting wrinkling shingles and clumsily dumps buckets of rain onto the gray tin roof.

We all stand together watching water wet the windows.
Then the sun comes and kicks the buckets.