She didn’t stay long
or leave much in the way
of puddles,
her fine gray mist
to brighten green,
settle dust
and relieve the pain
of waiting
for a well-begged rain—
a sniff and taste
to lure us closer
toward our reward
like this cold dawn’s
chimney smoke,
flat to the ground,
drawn up-canyon
following her
discarded clouds.
February 23, 2020
0.15″
drycrikjournal 
I now have the just-wet smell in my mind if not actually in my nostrils. 🙂
janet
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How I wish she would gather herself back up and head our way.
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We have just had some longed-for rain at the end of a drought. Love your poem
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Very nice, John. It lightens the fear or drought rearing its ugly head. Forgotten for a short while.
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