At first echo, the sound
might be a wind-whipped leaf.
Acorns leaping from oaks, branches
gently cracking. And for a moment,
you will let yourself believe
any of the above possibilities.
Belief requires little
aside from closing your eyes
to the graying sky.
Dismissing the chill of a drop
on your nose. Refusing the scent
of water fallen to dirt, of grass
shining with longevity.
But—the acorns and brittle leaves
landed weeks ago,
and there blows not breeze enough
to bend bare branches. It’s time.
Open your eyes and admit it, darling—
It’s pouring rain and you
are damn near drowned.