Here among the rains

I can smell the wet earth of a moment's rain. The soil shaken up with false hope. It comes to me with an urgency only found in the wilderness. The sky has a consistent, gray pallor, like the tedium of a postcard. It is a picture of my illusion. I love these restless trees, swaying still, from the sudden burst of young droplets. Pigeons fornicate on an air-conditioner fan. Yesterday's politics has disappeared. The rains crashing against concrete, washing the old roots of misshapen trees, is all I have for nature. A gust of wind carries the coal-fire smoke to the dirty river. A dry leaf floats to the rhythm of a different universe.