In the Year of the Drought

And still no rain. That storm was blown to sea,
West of us, by a nameless wind we could not hear or see.
Clouds in all the shapes of the zoo went by,
Darkly gesturing to us of danger; or perhaps, merely, of good-bye —
They left a smell of moisture clinging to the air,
Vaguely, as though someone had passed a window whistling a familiar air,
One we could not guess. Stiff as wood
We watched, and would have given an arm for rain, or thought we would,
Until evening found us still at the dry well,
Feverish, thinking: what’s the use? and: perhaps it’s just as well.
And so we stood, all night, embarrassed, in the wind;
And in the empty light of morning we watched a swallow circle and circle.