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
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?