Today, the gathering of clouds. Tomorrow,
the small, black umbrella in its sheath.
I am prepared. I am waiting.
What hearts are made for.
And you stepped out of darkness the way
a bird lands, blind but precise, holding on
to the last strong branch
as if you planned it.
We know how it works, the physics of it,
the wing span, the tiny, hollow bones, how
miracle disguises itself as logic;
a forest of birds taken for granted.
Then rains come, you swept up by wind,
a reason to expect the world will turn
on its sterling axis, the same dark storm
to guide you home.