A still reflection in black night
on redwood two by sixes outside
the window at three could be
the top of a deep pond, but it’s not.
I listen, but only the tinkling
of tiny drops in the downspouts
of just-cleaned gutters, all-day Monday
worn on your hands as you sleep—
one last ritual to please the rain gods,
or throwback penance if we’ve sinned
by feeding cattle on the Sabbath.
Chimney swept, woodstove clean,
waiting for Manzanita stacked
beneath the eave—all checked off
in case it rains. We’ve done all we can,
been good Boy Scouts, heard our fathers’
voices a thousand times in this drought—
they would be proud. It’s nothing, really—
but it’s wet.