I watch from a doorway
some lightly-sprung leaves, each dipping
when a raindrop hits; the branch
a chorus line lifting and bending.
Nearby the rhododendron remains unmoved.

In a puddle on the landing,
an unseen scholar demonstrates circles
intersecting circles. Within a green cave
near the drive, our mockingbird
steps through dimness.

Then a lull. Clouds to the west
still heavy, swollen, gray—but in the quiet
of no rain falling, I hear a trickle
down the hillside, cars on wet street.
At its tip, every leaf bears a seed of light.