Like black-shelled turtles emerging from underground tunnels,
they hide their heads from the rain,
scurry to their assigned dry places,
shake off water, disappear – but for one
blue shell that separates to find ocean.
These February evenings, our invisible daytime Moon,
lost in the Sun’s glare, has moved
east of the setting sun, a crescent
briefly seen in the west after sundown.
Earthshine is softly lighting the dark side.
Fine flakes so intricately small they disappear
against bright gray sky, roads and sidewalks.
In this forest, every surface takes some,
except for the creek, which accepts it
as brethren. I extend my bare hands.
No manifestations. No striking gods or goddesses.
No visits by wise men bearing gifts.
No river baptism. Not even a revelation
like some Dubliner hearing universal snow falling –
a distant star’s soul, a bright radiant.
Should the new year begin with rain?
Well, it did. What can we say
about this meteorological prophecy for the year?
Rain is necessary for life. We begin
the year properly. Water the seeds. Sunlight.