Dark, about to rain
(confirmed on NOAA) –
there is no poetry today,
no sweet metaphors left
on the watermelon wagon
as we bump along.
Instead, I listen for
the whir of early drops
upon the roof, ready
to fall into a long sigh
and broadleaf grin,
too edgy now to write.
The grass will come
on stronger, hold ‘til
the Ides of March –
until another, hopefully.
It’s dark, about to rain
buckets-full, they say,
promising for a week.
Slow arriving, late to stay
awhile, or miss these
gray south slopes
altogether – you
never know in California.
drycrikjournal 