In the slight shadows
of a rain cloud morning,
I step out underneath the awning
of the flat porch roof.
Only patches of darkened concrete
suggest memory of light rain
that came in the night
in the brief stirring of wind in the branches
of the maple outside
the open window of the bedroom.
I turn a bucket upside down,
cover its wet bottom
with an old T-shirt
and begin my makeshift breakfast:
a glass of tea, crackers and cheese.
I sit, shirtless,
looking out across the horses
grazing in the pasture,
the tree line leading to the road
and the creek beyond that.
In the intense green
of such a morning,
I see the dim whites of locusts
in blossom on the side of the bluff.
This sudden pouring of warm weather
as we have gone from frost to ninety-three
in one week
will trigger blooms and storms
and sudden growth
from what is not ruined.