The street is thinking to itself
all the way downslope
from where the desert turns to asphalt
and finches spill from the afternoon sky.
Today is grey, grey
as doubt, as introspection,
grey as tomorrow’s
rain whose clock
ticks drops of water. The moon will not see midnight
but be shy
behind the clouds. The pond
will harbor memories
of far away and sing back
at the raindrops. Dawn will be a hummingbird
and dusk a Red-tailed hawk. Noon will be a traffic light
unable to make up its mind
between stop and go.
And every present
moment will be an echo
of the past, asking didn’t it . . . ,
wasn’t there . . . ,
isn’t Paris lovely,
isn’t rain
a confrontation
to the soul when it stands up and wants to fly?
There are four peaks sixty
miles away, days long
forgotten jostling
for attention, and the present moment constantly
repeating itself, calling rain a prayer for those
who don’t believe, saying look . . . look
at water shining as it
falls.
