The first drop came without warning.
Clashing against the soil,
sending fragments in every direction.
The second drop was inevitable.
Landing directly next to the first,
swallowing it, becoming more.
The ferns rejoiced
for salvation was a rarity here.
Standing with their mouths agape,
they quenched their dwindling spirits.
But salvation was relentless.
The third and fourth drops came,
Followed by a fifth and a sixth.
The seventh brought dismay
and the eighth brought surrender.
Disheartened, the ferns looked
to the drops colliding with their skin,
then looked down to the parchedness
where the beetles clung to shelter.