It’s been raining for 22 days straight and I
couldn’t tell you why the evergreens weep like
they do but if you must, the skies ravens are
bellowing what they’ve witnessed in a song we
will never understand and will endlessly hear.

Feathered armor protects the branches that starkly
plead for handfuls of the sponge-clouds above.
Why don’t we listen to the warning calls
of the floods coming from God’s eyes?

The sticky moss resting on the north side of the
rusty hemlocks will tell you, the record is 55 days
since they’ve seen the sun---a dialect less penetrating
than the all-too-inviting cries that echo the woodlands.

Whispers of the breeze flowing through the trees
are not enough to overcome this tempest that is steeping
slowly and surely the habit of nature will wash its face
clean of any inadequacies.  Now, if you told me

it rained here over half the year, I’d believe you.
Not just because it’s the Pacific Northwest, but because
I’ve witnessed the consistency of the pure quietude, of the
circling crows that count every beat and divide every lap.
Their dependable vantage forecasts any storm.