He cuts off our heads
just above the eyes
but it’s the best we can expect
from clumsy little hands.

We’re smiling from high,
Natural Bridge, new love, sleeping
toddler strapped to my back,
dark clouds crowding

into the frame, bumping
shoulders in the background.
No capture of the next moment,
when the first drops plummet,

burst and splatter on our shoulders,
and we start down, hopeful
to make it back to the trailhead
before it starts to pour.

But we get caught 
by the cloudburst. My oldest
son squeals and reaches
for the sure grip of your hand

to keep him from falling
down slippery rocks in the deluge.
You hoist him onto your hip.
The baby whimpers in my ear

from beneath the sodden hood
of his jacket as you guide us
all to shelter, shadow
of a craggy ledge where we’ll wait

for the worst to pass, soaked
clothes suctioned to our bodies
like we all dove headlong
into a swimming pool.

Kids calmed now, poking at mud
puddles with a stick,
I watch the steady drip 
from the brim of your hat.

You start to apologize
for bringing us here, showers
in the forecast and all, claim
it’s your fault, a bad idea.

But I shake my head, send rivers
flowing from the ends of my hair.
This rain is so warm,
and I’m laughing.