Moon Hidden by Clouds

Rain starts high in the hemlocks,
works its way down

to spatter the tent.

Sleepless, I stoop out
into moss-scented darkness.

At first, nothing is there.

It is as if the world has been swathed in gauze
and packed away while I slept.

Just a vertiginous blackness,
the rain’s static,

and a sense of rapid flight
upward into invisible clouds.

Cool, disembodied touches 
on my arms, my hair.

Gradually the earth returns.

Ground solidifies underfoot;
pine bark rasps beneath my palm.

A gleam off the lake 
silhouettes the birches along the shore.

For months there has been 
a low whisper

buried at the bottom 
of everything I do.

And now, on all sides, an almost imperceptible 
stirring. Parched soil softens,

opens to receive rain.