Soft Thunder

narrowmouth toads dapple pink sandstone
knee-deep in a brown bowl of brown water

before the croon of limb and wind on weeds
puddles from the pour gather for a morning song

the sun rises from a flatbed load of open palms
                  : each crease a ripple a leg a half smile

the sun knows best when it rises
                  : each tide and oak and uplift sung the same

each killdeer and mare and desert bighorn
each I I gorge each I I ravine each I I—

and each part of me is hung out to dry marooned
and wrung of rain, wrung of every I until no I is left
                            :      soft thunder
                                               ponds in a clearing
More Poems by Jake Skeets