Don Thompson

The slough always dries up in late summer
—and so do I—
parched, hard-packed, and cracking
in the heat that won’t let go.

Tule reeds bristle like an old scrub brush.

This is all about waiting—
and outlasting yourself, somehow,
until the season of manic rains

when green comes back out of nowhere,
suddenly, and birds galore,
and frogs that bellyache all night,
complaining for the sheer joy of it.

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