Out watering the garden, the summer sun
still low, I watch the fine spray turn the dusk
inside a bush into a surge of light
striped with pencil-shadows cast by leaves –
so intimate a transformation,
the soft channels of sunlight shot through
with billowing swirls of drops I can
change at will – a rainstorm in miniature.
At noon, fishing boats on the ruffled bay –
their wakes now smooth, sky-bearing paths
that lead the gaze towards the mountains.
Under a cupola of gold glass
swallows write their sacred music;
so much light and water known by those bright eyes