I would still have to stop suddenly
in the middle of the block, in mid-thought,
in the middle of a rain shower, to begin
a fully extemporized essay on the way
rain drops and gravity collude at feathers’
edges to demonstrate fluid dynamics.
If you were here you would convince me
to consider how the calculus of wing beats
sifting the scent of just-opened lilac florets
through a sieve of bright spring rain
might exculpate even a childhood foe
thought forgotten all these years till now.
If you were here I’d be listening to your
laughter, not listening for it in the rain.