Canyon gray,
light warm rain,
glass of wine at dusk,
and we enjoy the sound
of small drops
on a metal roof,
tinkling ricochets
in stereo downspouts
that insulate
our momentary sighs,
escaped breath rising
on words overheard
only by the gods
and fickle goddesses
somewhere overhead.
Not the storm predicted,
not the flood
to erase the drought
that won’t release its grip
for years, if ever,
talons sunk in our flesh—
this crease of earth and rock
that’s heard it all before
from generations of oaks
and sycamores, cattle
people and natives,
all sighing at once.
drycrikjournal 