Were there any other images alive in this rain
that would come upon me more bright
and driven, more noisy and fluttering
than this flock of crows beating through the bamboo?
Me and the retriever, golden, a puppy,
night watchmen together at the edge of the stick forest,
the green dark rattles, rushes, and I expect,
even want to see a giant bat or bear come
tumbling down, and even better, just the sounds,
no shadow, no wing across the moon,
just the rustle and wind moans, the warning snap,
a crash in the leaves, and then the night,
the rain and the breezes.
Coffee puppy nosing through the downed branches,
sniffing out memories of cats come and gone
from the backyard kingdom.
Hush hush sweet night, I wait for god to touch me.
We wait for our loved woman to return.
And the crows return to their mighty imitation
of crinkling paper and E. Poe mysteries
while the pup and I stand together waiting,
waiting for the rain to speak,
waiting and watching the darkness breathe.
