We’ve seen these years, here:
frosty, slow dances on the horizon
as cows grow thinner. She shows
a little leg and throws a lusty look
long distance, then comes close
to exposing a great billow of clouds
as she bends to whisper something
that rhymes with rain.
We are too old for this charade
of goddesses-in-training, neophytes
stretching like willow limbs
upon the ridgeline, like rock
wrens bumping the earth
to flit away. We need
the real thing: a prolonged
storm to run the canyons.
They’ve had their practice,
entertained the cowboys slumped
at their tables, long-drunk
with anticipation. Rumor is she’s
resting in her dressing room,
has a migraine and may not make
the show tonight. At this late date,
all we know to do is wait.