Bestiary of Rain

For less than a week
I’ve been walking
among the colossal
trees of the Andrews
Forest, and already it
feels like 73 straight
days of rain. Once,
when I looked straight
up into the canopy,
each drop that wriggled
through became a silver
rocket wobbling in
from outer space.
Other times, I watched
blowing curtains of
rain. Chain mail rain.
Rain that eroded and
reshaped the air, as
rivers do the land.
Meditations of rain.
Today, fog has been
roosting in the crowns
of the Douglas firs—
upside down and
side-long rain, the sun
a guttering star. On
a fern-wet path, I
stop walking, warm
my hands around a
mug of coffee, and
listen. The patient
dripping of rain. But
the trees, I think, hear
the Hallelujah Chorus.