The Feast of St. John the Baptist
Rain again. Again. Again.
Not the gentle pitter-patter rain, but
the tropical kind, the pounding kind
that washes out roads and birds’ nests,
that splatters mud on the lettuce,
soaks gray squirrels to brown,
gives mosquitoes everything
they need but blood. I can’t
sleep in this rain. It’s something
primeval, some anxiety
about the river rising, roots
rotting, everything I know
being washed away.