The Day You Wanted Rain

The day you wanted rain, the dog wouldn’t shut up—

dog wisdom had cracked the Labrador knob of his skull

and forced its way out in loyalty to his humans.

We let him in and told him to lie down,

maybe he took that as a sign we accepted his call.

The day you wanted rain, the bird continued its chatter,

taking cues from the dog to make more noise than usual,

but it was only noise, the brain of a bird is miniscule

in comparison. And with its feet in the trees, not grounded

in the knowledge that seeps up from crevices of stone.

The day you wanted rain, the oak, eager in its height, stretched

hopeful leaves to wrestle pale sunlight from the cloud’s

avarice that falsely believed its storm-black center can pull

light, like a magnet, into itself. Its power is fleeting

unlike the deep rooted longevity of the oak.

The day you wanted rain, we should have stayed in bed,

allowing the dog to bark down the bird that clung

to the oak’s branches. Under the covers, fooled

by the darkness of the clouds that sunrise was late,

we could create our storm with natural causes.