dry season and the lawn yawns in gaping chasms,
mouths wide for rain. there’s only dust on the horizon.
i sit, eating penepis, warm ginger on my tongue
watching the birds look for water from dried gutters
where cane toads squat in the last of the water grass
and wait. the news talks of freak tornados, Guadeloupe
screams in the sun. each night the earth shakes a little,
gives warning in daily bulletins of 4.8 magnitudes. meanwhile
names are released for the hurricanes. i look to see if my name
made the list. a friend’s name, a family name. as the mango tree
bends under burden of fruit, hanging limp in the air, begging for
the beaks of bananaquits and black grackles, the occasional fowl
something is coming. soon the rain will burst from the roof
and flood the open maw of the soil. but not quite yet.
today is only made of dust and sun. the quiet twitter of bullfinches.