Ode To The Gully Washer
(for James Corner)

When it came down we'd bow
our heads and utter each to each
the plain-spoken dialogue
of the deluge. A year's worth
of waiting over in a flash. Resurrection's
aisle cleaned up, mint and grass
combed out properly in three directions.
A kicked ball would turn up
near the corner in a stretch
of wild rasberry wholly out
of reach, no trespassing sign needed.
Tadpoles and water walkers,
giant red dragonflies called snakefeeders:
everything with a description
sorting origin and function, a collection
of results-specific identifiers
for the concerns of our people.
Wasps with addresses and vendettas,
rocks with names beside
bean vines and China Berries,
pop beetles and walking sticks.
A host of communion eaters
and seekers, drought prone to river wise.
Our contempt reserved for the fires.