Phantoms
A flash of dusty red
reflects in a raindrop.
A figure hints and teases,
a toss of a head,
a tilt of the body,
hidden in puffs of mist
and the shroud of silver.
I run on slick ground,
tossing up some past
season's dead leaves.
I strain, and think
I hear some laugh I know
so well. I stop and see
only the driving rain, hear only
the sound of it breaking
on the ground.