I feel a clearing of the skies.
The last drop of rain flings itself
From the roof's edge, and the wind
Carries it away to fall in the garden next door.
Little gray birds flit among the leaves, finding
Sanctuary in the gnarly branches of an old orange tree.
Yesterday, the wind sounded like ancient Aoleus
Dragging a long, gray beard through protesting grasses.
Today, it is young and lean, nipping at the clouds
Like a young dog at the heels of fleecy sheep.
A mountain's bulk shoulders the vap'rous flock up and over,
Pushing them onward to anticipating poets.
The rain endures, the wind abates,
Cloud tatters cast occasional shadows
Yet,
I feel a clearing of the skies.