We hear way off approaching sounds
Of rain on leaves and on the river:
O blessed rain, bring up the grass
To the tongues of the hungry cattle.
– Wendell Berry (“Sabbaths 2000, VIII”)
Perhaps the old trees grounded in granite
feel it flutter first, out of the southwest—
or the windmill that never lied, spinning
pointing, pumping water. We await
the screaming crescendo of wind rising
on the corner of cedar log ends to be sure—
the Siren’s song that can draw dry souls
from the flesh to fly with the first drops
sounding on the roof, the leaves, the earth.
No finer miracle than that moist moment
of redemption, inhaled and absorbed at once,
bringing grass to the tongues of hungry cattle.
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A ‘promising chance’ is bantered about among local news and weather commentators for next Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
drycrikjournal 