By Robbi Nester
It never rains here anymore.
Instead, the sky swells with songs,
clouds like a jukebox, packed with
jingles, ditties, even an occasional symphony
that will never loosen the cracked earth
so the roots can spread their white fingers.
The notes curl in airy arpeggios over my head,
tympani like thunderheads, the thin strains
of the strings scattering in cirrus wisps,
as the horn section heralds another
day of unacceptable sunshine.