This morning I wake to rainfall
tapping wet fingers against my windows.
I hear the clogged gutters trickling,
rain spouts leaking aqueducts
the traffic hissing, the trees weeping.
I put on my jacket, my old hat
and stand out on the wood veranda
getting my barefeet tendons wet,
listening to all the sounds of rain
falling gently on the helpless city
as the early morning train clatters
pulling away from Lancaster station,
the umbrella commuters huddling
up the staircase to waiting taxis:
a choreagraph of rain on grace
with no conductor in sight.

© 2002 Daniel R. Miller