On the walking trail, a breeze reels itself

beneath the heat like a frothed-up tide,


delivers these words like a message

in a bottle—It’s a different generation


almost as an eye-of-the-storm omen,

promising befores and afters unseen.


See: rain. See: pressure. See: there is a cold

front coming in. And the day has the nerve


to tire itself out with this news. What sort

of generation is this, posed at cliff’s edge,


desperate to inhale the scent of sky-break?

What sort of rain will wash us away? Once,


a flood turned a dirt hill to cooled lava

in the backyard, mucking over the plants,


the toys forgotten during dinner rush.

We saw rain return to earth, steam and soot,


the house a witness to calamity. Thought

our best things to be gone. But as the next


day’s heat nursed the water from the soil,

there they were—our dolls and trucks,


their plastic still glimmering with new.