Beats, pelts, falls.
Hard, icy pips,
Hit, bounce,
then disappear.
They surprise the blue sky,
Dashing downwards
As if to spite the sun.
A great mass of small specks,
They land,
But never stay.
Never really alter
The footpaths
or the Day.

And after, their memory echoes
In the soft shining rain.
The sun will soon forget
Their flurried rush.

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This Poems Story

not much to tell; it was a sunny day but the hail fell