Cedar After Rain

The cedar darkens first, as if the rain preferred a patient, furrowed skin. Beads gather in the grooves and travel slowly down— not hurried water, only the old tree teaching how to keep a secret wet. I stand beneath the branches where resin sweetens the air and the path is a braid of needles and wet stone. Somewhere a thrush tries one note, then waits. The storm has finished speaking. What remains is listening and the quiet green of after.