darkening my navy blue shirt, I recall the monk who, listening
to rain dancing on his hermitage roof
in rhythms he had "not yet learned
to recognize" toasted bread over a log fire, or an oatmeal dinner on a
propane stove. He wrote, "Nobody
started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long
as it wants, this
rain. As long as it talks, I will listen."
are poets who perform the miracle of remaining alive long
enough to hear a coyote howling at the
rain's ribs when the wind blew from the north, the direction
from which rain could be expected to come.
Accusations of cunning will be made only by those who see the
one mysterious life.