Raining in Summer

Raining in Summer Spray spittle from loose gray lips magnifies the green wardrobe of spruce A sea lion couple casually slips from a rocky jut, their ragged brown coats cycled into slick summer wear The north wind pelts the rain bullets harder into the sides of our nylons off cold city glass and concrete We grip wet parcels, have no control, yet we never feel more alive Clouds lovingly proliferate, the south wind batters the gutters fill and splatter and it’s bath day, for us all, even though it’s only Wednesday A hummingbird passed away at the feeder just now. Wet from beak to tail. Just before she peed on my notebook, I’ll treasure the smudge. An emerald sat beside her, to look at or restore her —a tiny, gray -feathered supporter as is my husband, who spoke to her in low tones, kept tender watch, her in her last shower. We all have a last summer rain, a last sweet drink. Best we can hope for is to die in our sleep, as hummingbirds mostly do rest our tired thinkers, in velvety petunias, purple if we are lucky, and luckier still if rain will soak us through, on a summer day as good as any, even if it’s only Wednesday