After the clouds have moved in,
and eventually settle over the ranges
and plain—it begins to quietly rain.
Under the grey barn’s wall, you listen
to the fall, a corrugating sound on tin:
on grass, on farm track; and watch it form
a puddle; and you think back to all
the small round things that were found
like empty nests, on afternoons such
as this. And listen for the life of the sky.