Mountain air smells
like honeysuckle and cinnamon
this time of year.
And everyday it rains.
The creek stays full and flows
like an artery or vein.
It whistles and bubbles in the valley
against rocks and stones and banks.
Sometimes it sounds like clapping,
as if the stones were giving thanks.
I marvel at the chatter
rumbling over green terrain.
I play no part in the matter
though I often root for rain.