Dew dampened dust, softened wild oat stems,
petrichor on a downcanyon breeze at four
in the black morning that smells like rain
just around the corner in October. I check
the 10-day forecast, craving a storm like always,
but content to paint the gray, slow drip
off roof and limb. Nothing but hurricanes
busy elsewhere as the planet goes to hell
as if the very End were near, knocking
on the door to who knows what
or which tragic prediction or wretched
explosion will engulf and fling
our fractured souls to the solar burn pile.
Dew dampened dust, softened wild oat stems,
petrichor on a downcanyon breeze.
drycrikjournal 