The ****** plugged the culvert.
Overnight.
Again.
New growth, cut short.  Chewed short.
Grasses.  Mud.  Stones.
Branches and leaves and muck.
Roots from the far-below.

And this time.
A lotus flower.  Sprinkled in dirt.
But alabaster otherwise.
Atop the waterstop.
Brilliant as a clear mind.  White as an,
an as an an an anything overexposed to the point of
newness.

Bees in the rain.  Tending to purple
spires that no one planted.

A hawk in the birch again.
Green heron plummets toward the pond’s
edge.

10:08
Outdoor shower in thunder.  It calls.  She calls.

Poem ends.