On Rain

It’s raining. The dog

is sad, curled up in the misery

of not walking me.

When it stops, the night

smells of wet pine, so good,

like the dreams of city folk, their soap,

like itself and spring woodsmoke.

On a black road holding a leash,

I sniff my shoulder to see if it is me.

It was kind of the rain to wait

for us to finish weeding,

power tooling, before it fell,

though of course rain falls when it will

with no thought of kindness.

How we love to personify

the earth’s indifference

when it suits our gratitude or ire.

It felt like kindness.