Sweating through June,

only one relief blows in

around the same time that

summer storms pound sideways

against the windows

and blow the air out of our lungs.

When there are more streams of water

than grasses in the yard

or pebbles in the path,

the urge to open the back kitchen door

and let the mountains leak in, too,

overwhelms any sense 

of indoor and outdoor spaces.

Rushing water stills the clock

of the rest of the world

even if only during

the duration of the disturbance itself.

Once the squall subsides

with the full length of its shadows

back to the creases between hills,

the mountains also retreat,

back across the tiles and reweathered wood

of the backyard deck,

back to the hidden places 

where cloudbursts loosen 

the wildnesses we are too busy to liberate

except when we are moored

by our own houses

in a storm.