dark of winter rain


the crackling blacks of barren branches
trim against the grey afternoon.
the wind is barely visible.
the rain falls straight and light.
a muted plaid could pass as treebark
for all the lines intersecting:
rain and trees and horizon,
angles made for measurement

that contribute later to the rattle
of harder rain heard from under a tin roof.
a song that eases the torture of a thousand miles
and what washes off objects with each new rain.
erosion that sinks and slips from the ridges
                                             down
draws and gullies to valleys bearing creekbeds
that swell and rearrange.

everything that hits the roof
runs through gutters, down the drainpipe,
out into the yard and spirals downhill
caught up in sibling streams
that make lines through topography.

the greys darken to charcoals, blacks and fog.
each drop falls harder than the last
til hills are gone off to make more.

it's warm lately, even with the rain.
weather it's hard to decisively call winter.


	









why i am
a nomad: