Soft Thunder

narrowmouth toads dapple pink sandstone

knee-deep in a brown bowl of brown water

before the croon of limb and wind on weeds

puddles from the pour gather for a morning song

the sun rises from a flatbed load of open palms

                  : each crease a ripple a leg a half smile

the sun knows best when it rises

                  : each tide and oak and uplift sung the same

each killdeer and mare and desert bighorn

each I I gorge each I I ravine each I I—

and each part of me is hung out to dry marooned

and wrung of rain, wrung of every I until no I is left

                            :      soft thunder

                                               ponds in a clearing