Seven-day forecast

for Joel

 

We flee inland
beyond the divide;
cumulus brows cast
off by the sea
hold steady in the review mirror
four days in a row.
Eastward, eastward we roll
chasing a cloudless horizon,
the last fresh fruits of summer,and
denying the coming front.
Only for sleep and sustenance we pause,
until Chronos imposes his law,
pulls us back,
homeward. We’re briefly delayed
by a grove of golden aspen,
pine and dappled sunlight.
Hypnotized by the sway
of fritillaries, inebriated
by the mountain air, we drift away.
Comes a soft tap-tap tap
in the dancing trees, slowly we awake.
“Raindrops?” he asks, eyes still shut.
“No, a nuthatch,” I say,
realizing the prophecy of his question
in the rising wind and the veiled sky.
There will be rain

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