Not sing, I know that for sure
because all my birds are silent.
Perhaps perched under a leaf.
Maybe sleeping or cleaning nest.
Or worrying rain will never stop.

And rocks with their impervious armor,
do they even know what rain is?
Unless they are limestone,
water seeping, squeezing past granules
to pool, puddle, and dribble,
wearing it down imperceptibly.

Trees drink rain through their roots, send
it flowing through their xylem.
Trees catch it with their leaves too
where it evaporates and makes rain elsewhere,
a sort of protection from getting too much.

And I, during a rain, watch it fall, smelling
its scent, feeling its temperature,
and if it doesn’t stop, but keeps on and on
become like a tree.


Candace Hennekens is a poet, writer, and artist living on the banks of the Eau Claire River. Her short book of poems, photos, and chicken facts, titled Rented Chickens, won first place in the 2020 Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets chapbook contest. Read more by and about her here.


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