Watching the Rain

All week it has rained,
but not a deluge like now.
The sound of it interrupts my poetry
reading of Billy Collins’ The Student.
The cold feel of it pelting my feet,
sandals offering little protection.
The last advice line I read in the poem was:
When at a loss for an ending,
have some brown hens standing in the rain.

On this afternoon in a week of rain,
I study the giant of a maple, limbs bending
toward me on the east-facing porch that was
of no threat to me, but its seeds, their projection
destined to descend in a neat
helicopter like twirling without a hint
of the machine’s body, or pilot, but poetry
of its own making, nonetheless, somehow
will clog my gutters. I am thankful it has rained.

I have no brown hens standing in the rain.