Rivers

dusk sit alone.

cool, cloudy day. rain in evening.

several tiny waterfalls of rain fell from my pine, dripping from the low points of branches. i put my hand up to the trunk, and the water running down it was diverted into my sleeve, along my arm, my chest. it just kept pouring in, a river of cold rain under my clothing, like an underground stream running silently in the darkness.

the grass was that dusky-pale green it gets in a spring rain, drunk on water and covered in tiny droplets.

the needles of the pine clung to each other in the rain, the five-needled groups bound together, thick needles themselves, tree shaggy like a wet dog.

sound of rain crackling down on last year's blackberry stalks, spring peepers calling from a distance, robin shouting, doves - grandmother pine's doves? - cooing from a tree.

tomorrow they will burn the branches from our trees, piled so high. i've learned that the pine smoke isn't dangerous to us, just bad for chimneys because the creosote builds up. the woman at poison control center said that the oil burner in our basement is more dangerous to us than the burn will be, the fumes we breath every day more toxic.