Puffs of cumulous on blue,
naked sycamore ballet, backdrop
of granite rock on tender green—
January after a month of rain,
muddy froth upon the creek
greet me like an old friend.
We pick up where we left off
as if drought never happened,
each afloat in one another’s eyes
applauding our survival—and
the genius of persevering seed
clinging through the years of dust
without rain—our moment now
just to look, inhale the scent
of breath and flesh, alive again.