Soft Thunder
By Jake Skeets
narrowmouth toads dapple pink sandstone
knee-deep in a brown bowl of brown water
before the croon of limb and wind on weeds
puddles from the pour gather for a morning song
the sun rises from a flatbed load of open palms
: each crease a ripple a leg a half smile
the sun knows best when it rises
: each tide and oak and uplift sung the same
each killdeer and mare and desert bighorn
each I I gorge each I I ravine each I I—
and each part of me is hung out to dry marooned
and wrung of rain, wrung of every I until no I is left
: soft thunder
ponds in a clearing
