don-baca

There is a time of year 
When the rains come here, 
After the best of the summer 
Steps green, and the dusk
Is large and cool.

Sharp winds turn slicing 
Soon and sooner
The coming fall
Into a quickness of breath 
And a run to the barn.
Out of the river flows
The old muddy heart
Of this town.

All then
Under these rainy clouds 
Thunder and lightning 
Fierce and bounds,
Then gently receded
To blue like the turquoise.

The sky to the west
Is full of light
And the sun 
Is swallowed whole.