O river above the black opaque sky
where you flow, clouds rushing past at speed
the winds of your passing shaking the trees,
throwing needles and leaves and branches
swirling into the sky, bouncing from roofs
to porches and lawns where our part
of the planet is deluged with pour, the weight
of the water pulling it down in defiance
of the wind pushing it sideways.
In the attic
where I am sorting fabric by color into bins
it is chilly and the rain beats in waves its loud
fast tempo onto the dark skylight and I pause
to warm my hands on the new puppy
asleep in his blanket. The rain, the rain!
At dawn I go out in my nightgown, boots,
winter hat and blankets to the glider
on the porch under the deep eaves, settle in
swaying with my feet to the rhythm
of the redwoods whipping their spikey hair
over the seasonal creek where it roars
in its own small way, tripping over itself
down under the back fence, down
into our bay- and oak-filled canyon to spill
into San Pablo Creek, join with the Bay
and on to the sea, where it is swallowed
into the whole, becoming part of everything
as everything does.
—
Gail Rudd Entrekin has published six books of poetry, the latest being Walking Each Other Home (Longship Press). She is editor of the online environmental literary journal Canary (canarylitmag.org) and Poetry Editor of Hip Pocket Press. Her poems have been shortlisted for six established awards including the Northern California Book Awards and won the Women’s National Book Association Prize. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poems are widely published.
