After weeks of drought, tenuous rain

Though there's no thunder or lightning

And I think it is really the heavy dew

That had coalesced during the night,  

Now rising about as high as the pines

And then falling into the parched grass.

Across from me is a steep gabled roof,

Old cedar shingles a weathered gray

That is almost no color in gray light,

Edges notched and feathered, each

Curving up at the end like the wings

Of two doves poising under the eaves

And lifting a little out into the light,

Now rising about as high as the pines

And then falling into the parched grass.