There was a little rill of water, near the den,
That showed a trickle, all the dry summer
When I was born. One night in late August, it rained –
The Thunder waked us. Drops came crashing down
In dust, on stiff blackjack leaves, on linchened rocks,
And the rain came in the pelting rush down over the hill,
Wind blew wet into our cave as I heard the sounds
Of leaf-drip, rustling of soggy branches in gusts of wind.
And then the trill’s tune changed – I heard a rock drop
That set new ripples gurgling, in a lower key.
Where the new ripples were, I drank, next morning,
Fresh muddy water that set my teeth on edge.
I thought how delicate that rock’s poise was and how
The storm made music, when it changed my world.