All summer long,
the grass drinks the rain, then
crisps brown when the cup runs dry
and cracked mouths open
in thirsty fields.

But for today
(maybe just for today),
the cup is a trough, overflowing.

I crouch low in the green shimmer,
where light draws fish scales
on blades of grass, and yesterday’s storm
sings in circles around my boots.

I stay there
in shimmer and song. 
I watch the rain
drink the earth.