Mud

They dug. They built streams and rivers and damns. They shouted instructions to the sky and begged for more rain to flood the yard. They studied the clouds and named them based on their size. They searched for ones that looked dark and swollen with water but found none. They threw mud into the air using their shovels and hit the siding on the house and watched as it slid off leaving dark stains on the wood. They watched as the mud hit their shoes and their shirts and their cheeks, letting it dry and harden before they brushed it off. They ran across the yard and hid their cars against the back fence, shouting at the dogs on the other side until they barked and scratched to the sound of their voices. They moved through shade and sun, felt the wind on their cheeks. They stood still and pretended to be statues until their muscles trembled from inaction and they fell to the grass laughing with exertion. They gathered water in cups and poured it into their trenches, watching as it swept up leaves and blades of grass. They threw their cars into the puddles and watched as they slowly sank, and the tops of their roofs were swallowed by mud. At dinnertime they dug out their toys, collected them from the fences, dripping and muddy and slick. They traipsed through the house leaving thick shoe prints in their wake and dumped everything into the sink, letting clean water run over the pile. Then, they brought them to the table, dripping and soggy ready to do it again.