On the Second Tuesday in March

After daily red flag and
fire warnings, it is the
first rain in thirty-four days
drumming on the barn
roof, sliding from shingles
to splat on the swollen
daffodils, the fresh leaves
of sedums emerging from

the leafy humus. Here is
the cool warmth of an early
spring day, but thrumming
drops make for a daring sprint
to close doors and hunker down
against the gray haze, the
trembling detritus of last year’s

plants beside dimpled puddles
to which birds venture out to sip,
dip a wing and fly off to wait out
the clouds, already sensing this
fast moving front of sixty mph
is but a taste of things to come.

I shake drops from my hunting
vest, dump boots, and head
for a hot mug of coffee, feeling
like some benediction has been
bestowed in an unlikely chapel
but a blessing all the same.