The rain falls sideways
borne on the back of the wind,
thrown like javelins, just as sharp.
the drops don't care
they tumble as they fall,
I wonder where it came from, how far it traveled,
if it came from a distant ocean or gulf.
Did it get to know the birds?
The wind currents
or a passing jet?
this vertical freshet
will soak the hills, the ground, the gravel,
past the rocks and roots and bones and buried secrets.
It will come back to me, in a trout stream
to nurture fish and bugs
and creatures I know nothing of.
This rain, pelting my head
soaking my skin, will run off
and I wonder-
does it hold my scent
so that the trout will recognize me
when I touch the water?