In the rain, we remembered
the hummingbird from the day before
the first ever seen in our backyard.
We saw it twice, jetting past
each time I pointed it out.
And now, this rain,
in the middle of a drought
Drouthe, they called it
in Chaucer’s time
as if it mattered
so old it’s grown.

The tiny dinosaur
probed a Rose of Sharon
the last of the red-sexed blossoms.
While the tree trunks streaked dry
so little had the raindrops pierced,
we wondered about that little bird
powering physic law aside
as it sprinted by.

In another field, a giant tree
lay shattered, trunk blasted
leaves extreme, dead or dying.
God’s work.

When the rain gave up,
and the leaves instead
fell chattering like rain,
we thought of that bird, twice
spiriting back to that gorgeous flower
dowsing with its stamen beak
Twice back, and we wondered
and worried, the first ever seen
in our backyard, darting past,
if we will allow it to rain again ever.


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