Water runnels gurgling down the sides of the house
day of the two hundred somethingth year of independence,
this the night of that quiet day.
It is a bad time for a walk:
lightning broods in the clouds
and rain soaks our pants. Headlights
throw halos round our legs.
We test the echo under
a railroad bridge. The night
breathes rain, oceanic sighs
of life, gladdening us
amidst the “damns” at sudden puddles.
To our Mother here we pray
If we live til break of day
Let us tread a better way.