8:51 a.m. small waterfall
flowing onto North Lookout’s a trickle.
8:54 it’s swollen, covers all
long curbs, propelling fast as a fickle
rumor ignoring foundation. Still, grass
yellow as wheat from parched January
and its starched soil drink deep as Tantalus
beating the gods. A runner won’t tarry,
but strides steady past my writing windows.
Bare-chested, steel hair like our cloud-blanket
sky, bright rainbow shorts mid-thigh, on he goes.
9:16. Cascade thins to rivulet
as rain fades. I hear it across the way,
like distant colts’ hooves echoing in play.
Roger Armbrust
January 12, 2013
