One of the first sermons to make any sense
involved tea-water boiling into steam
in drought. The sound of bubbles,
heat, transformation. Then came
the sermon of rain, that fluid service.
The problem of rain—seeing phenomenon
as beautiful or awful. Either way
each falling drop is full of the flight of birds.
It takes two to take to the sky.
Alighting in shadow hides the light
that flight knows. Words, like myths,
work in wheels: they hover, they plunge.
Though it flows in locks and cascading braids,
water cannot be knotted.
About drawing emblems and conclusions,
here’s the image of a rider: blur lines
indicate swift motion. Between trees,
barbed wire, nearly invisible
in gloaming light, suggests its own moral.