San Diego July

5 a.m.
Light flashes.
Some vaguely remembered mutters.
Then an unaccustomed pattering.
I leave my bed, look out the window
Toward the corner street light,
Then return to drowse
Until dawn.

Later, I search the closet
For the packed-away umbrella,
Open the patio door, 
Breathe in the smell of freshly 
Moistened pavement, venture outside.

Not much is stirring
This early Sunday morning.
A bunny stills as I do,
Then hops off.

I stretch upward to finger a waxy magnolia leaf.
A lingering droplet detaches,
Plops onto my head.

I wonder, have the trees been as parched
As this transplanted Easterner
In sunny summer California? 

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