See You Saturday

“American Robin” by Courtney Celley/USFWS

See You Saturday

(a poem for March 28)

There is a desert between the last winter snow
and the first spring rain. Brittle leaves tumble
over dry dirt and pavement, catching in fences
like the robin confused by our garden chicken wire,
unable to reach his friend. All that was required
was to go any other direction. I startled him
with a strawberry top and he flew and flew,
released from his self-imprisonment.

I’ve been waiting for the rain. The day has been gray,
relentless gray. Solid, flat, heavy, like they paved the sky.
There are no regulations for that. They wouldn’t care regardless.
“It’s good for the economy,” they’d say. “You need this
SUPER SKY LOT WITH MAX LOAD HYPERDRIVE COMPATIBLE STALLS.”
Maybe, someday, we’d say, “Is anyone actually up there?”
But we might not worry until we noticed the 5,342nd crack.
A few casualties from falling concrete would get us talking:
“Negligence!” “Chicken Little Conspiracy!” “Really, the odds are small for you personally…”
There are always losses for the sake of progress. Move fast, break things.
Like people. And the planet.
Shrug emoji.

With a walk to the mailbox a few blocks away,
Lucas and I summon the rain. We have no umbrella, no rain jackets.
Even so, I don’t feel the first drops. They speckle the sidewalk
like spots on a robin’s egg. The salutation smears
on the postcard I carry. Harder and faster,
the clouds deliver. A hush and then a roar.
There is a raindrop for every bit of pavement.

We could be the rain.