The stillness, the radio’s news,
the scent of rain. My neighbor
bending to pick up his newspaper
in its orange plastic bag, tossed
on the step. The cars all
heading this way or that,
a fine spray beneath their wheels. Vapor
rising from sidewalks, and the light
of the eastern sun, slanting long, as if
there’s all the time in the world.
On days when I accidentally leave my more traditional camera at home, I am so grateful for the one built into my cell phone.
A day without rain is like
a day without sunshine
From the book The Really Short Poems of A.R. Ammons
joins faint jazz & chatter
distracts from breath