A mourning dove predicts a better weather
but this impatient brother, rain,
drums on the canvas incessantly,

and with coffee and smoke
the day is beginning to happen
in spite of the wet and me.

I turtle back in my sleeping bag
and try to recapture a dream
which follows a railroad into the woods.

I walk the mossy, rotting ties
down tunnels of trees,
down to the black-mouthed mines

where dark comes seeping out.
Nearby is an orchard gone wild
and a small black pond

where sun bangs on the water
like a pie-tin, where hemlock
and maple bank on the shade,

where deer come down to drink
beneath the gifts of trees,
their eyes shining like rain

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