Readers of

my most recent
poetry probably think
this poem is about rain.

It could be
for rain plays a leaf’s song
above me, an energetic drumroll
nearer than the distant
dove’s lament yesterday,
not as loud
as the car,
passing me,
its tires, sloshing
through street runoff
reminiscent of a five pointer’s
feet as it crossed Hay Creek
in the shallow water
of the stream,
with me downwind.

I was young, alert,
and I aimed,
held my breath,
but I lowered
my rifle
that morning.

the young lady
across the street
comes out
and walks
when it slows
to a drizzle.