The rain everyone has been yearning for,
Hours of steady, windless, perfect precipitation—
A cistern-replenishing pattern of sound above,
While gravity drums the pond surface
with its soft patter of life-giving noise,
As audible nourishment strikes every leaf,
And the random “glug” of a frog the only other
Sonic
Element.
The pleasurable glow of yesterday among friends,
Celebrating Uncle Sam’s 231st birthday
With a salmon meal of grilled Lake Huron steaks
And the delayed flash of digital device,
Capturing our toast from the guest-room doorway—
Vessels with an Australian vintner’s liquid harvest
Suspended above hot bread and a splash of
Salad
Endowment.
An interlude of relaxation at the range—
The Enfield’s .303 British cartridges alternate
With Martini brass impressive to my eye,
To satisfy a double rifle’s twin digestive tracts,
And short-clip video to simulate an extra dose
Of firing-line pressure, like the buzz of competition,
Or a sub-continental feline’s unexpected flash of
Savage
Explosion.
The odors of black powder haze and gun oil,
With a mild numbness of eardrum
To match the right shoulder’s dull ache,
Linger in a montage of memories punctuated
By the solid “plinks” of steel swingers,
And, from a hundred yards away,
The precise punch of bullseye, surprising me with
Sudden
Effusion.