First rain

The parched wind swirls within self
Seeking to quench its thirst
Then it senses an ambrosia
As the ground is hit from above
The wind senses the trapped souls escaping their captivity
The wind picks on the easy preys
It rushes toward for the prize
But its ordeal isn't over yet
So it swirls still, amuses itself
As it hears the tall tale sound of the ground losing itself