Rain against the earth’s surfaces, a million
tiny percussions. If I couldn’t have arms,
I’d want a duck beak, feather-layers
to tuck it into, warm as your down comforter.
A few rain-notes splash in the creek, drop
down rapids, sink in coolness towards
the ocean, the salty coastal birds. You
sit beside me. The field by the creek,
the pockets and folds of Appalachia
fill with the sound, like the ducks’ eyes
when they open, filling with light.
