An orange floatplane 
cuts the drabness 

of this morning. 
Perhaps when birds

alight and tilt their 
head it’s not gauging

us as a threat but 
wondering why 

we don’t fly.  
The cloud deck

is low and so smell
carries, this acreage

spiced, medicinal. 
I have a vision 

of the sagebrush
under rain, although

today will be dry,
I’ve seen them 

lashed, the land
made sea, this

house in a flood
plain. The finches

sing their circular song.
The floatplane lands.

All this week it will 
be cooling off.

The dogs go out, 
the dogs come in,

one bared her teeth
this morning, guarding

her pain.  With clouds 
so close, sound is too,

a train is now running 
towards Wenatchee.

The finches sing
their circular song,

the floatplane lifts 
and banks hard left,

the morning giving 
way but nothing

changing, it’s been
years since we’ve

seen a good 
storm.