takes cover under
his decrepit garden shed.
a cacaphony of dollops

pelt the thin tin,
beat the dirt around him
into a dark rich loam.

he can only wait.
ten minutes.
then twenty.

watch the leaves
of the watermelon vines
twist and spin
in the wind.

a wry smile,
having just spent

a blazing June
the fourth in a row
over ninety degrees,

bucket by bucket,
dousing each dry
desirable stalk in
the plot, refill
after refill.

of course,
that’s the best
rain dance:
to go and water
all the plants.