It lingers—
                  it lifts,
                           becomes cloud.

Then it loosens.

 
                  It dazzles.
         It drips.
It drenches
the moss,
the murmuring
 
crows
at the ditch line.

         It slides.
                  It slips.
                           It seeps—

           It rains.

                  It rests.
         It remembers the sky,
                  then—
 
                               It runs.
                  It rises.
                          It rushes,
    wearing                stone
                                    to silence—

It grows, glows.
It gathers.

It gulps

the light,
                  the dark.

It hums.

It holds. It hurls 
against its heaving,
heading
some-
how
home.