The radar shows
a storm system stretching
from Oklahoma
to New York.

A squall line across half the country.

The meteorologist points
to colors.
Pressure gradients.
Bands of precipitation.

As though naming a thing
makes it solid.

The rain falling outside my window
this evening

is from the same system
falling on you.

The same composition
working through different coordinates.

I like that weather refuses
our borders.

State lines.
Time zones.

Clouds do not care.

A storm crosses Kentucky

without noticing

Kentucky.

Before wires and telephones

messages crossed states
on horseback through rain.

A sentence taking days
to find

the person
it belonged to.

Tonight I imagine the wind lifting
the leaves to you.

You looking up
from whatever you are doing.

Maybe reaching
for the bill of your cap.

The universe
understands connection.

Gravity.
Migration.
Watersheds.

Everything leaning
toward everything else.

Even longing
behaves this way.

Sometimes I think
relationships are less like bridges

and more like weather.

Not something built.

Something entered.

A pattern large enough
to contain two people

standing far apart

beneath the same rain.

The water in our bodies
has been here
for billions of years.
Passed through oceans.
Glaciers.
Storm drains.
Tea kettles.

Tonight

somewhere beyond the horizon

water is falling through darkness

onto both of us.