There’s something about rain that makes me want to bake cookies or write poetry.
Thank goodness it doesn’t happen often, but it is doing it today in Sedona, Arizona.
It’s April, supposedly spring, but the forecast for the high is fifty degrees. It’s startling news for us.

Here’s my poem:


At ten in the morning the pine and cedar trees
are doing their little dance, shaking here, shaking there.

Water, water everywhere, in drops, in streams.
The rained-on dog comes in for her rub-down.

There is no guilt in dogs, I read somewhere.
She does not look ashamed about getting drenched.

Her tail is wagging—
that plume-like tail that looks as though
she is conducting an orchestra and,
at the same time, brightening a dreary day.
She’s clever that way.

Gene K. Garrison

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