Ashen clouds billow and sprawl across the northern sky,
sauntering slowly over Pike’s Peak and Black Mountain.
Elegant dress hems are momentarily caught on rising hilltops
as Phoenix welcomes her queen and savior.
Clear blue skies bow to their guest and retreat,
feathery white ice crystals trailing behind.
The navy-gray scene becomes a black and white film,
thick gray clouds fading into sleeting rain.
Tonight, I do not witness the neon orange sunset dip behind
Camelback Mountain to silhouette The Praying Monk, as usual.
Walking home, I hear the sound of dropped pearls scatter
before I feel the ping of tiny water pebbles on my shoulders.
The love birds have taken shelter in their palm-top homes,
envisioning worms and snails rising up to the surface.
The pines are lapping up water as saguaros fill their long-term tanks.
And all are mourning the brethren lost to the hottest summer on record.
After ten long months without rain, the spell has finally been broken;
the desert and her every inhabitant–once again–have a reason to dance.