Rain falls through the pineslike a relaxation, a decision not to go somewhere, not to cinch up a tie, not to pay a stack of bills. Its sounds are the swish of mice in winter grass, counting their money, deciding not to girdle the fruit trees since their cheeks are stuffed
with food stamps anyway. They are no fools, these mice. They want the apples, the pears, the mulberries, for their progeny. They want to be cute in our minds.
The rain prints even smaller tracks than theirs, dimpling the puddles, erasing the wasp trails in the mud, where they have been rolling balls to carry off to daub the eaves
with little wasp houses. And since the engines of their fragile wings can freight such solid cells, with so much heft when gathered, why should I not work in my small silence,
gathering words, like the rain, which comes in drops, which sounds, the window open, like a dreamy hush, an invitation to be whimsical, a smile of something, blessing the hillside.