Early January, balloons slowly deflating, the tree

still up, random red and green items scattered around.

A parched feeling, a lack of juice

in the leathery remains of last year.

Days are dark and like a miner, I cast

my flashlight beam into the depths,

there are only echoes.

People more clever, more juicy than me,

find gold.

I raise my face to the sky, praising the cold blue patch

sprawled between rain layers.

I puzzle at the sprinkles on my face

and realize the wind is blowing rainwater

off the live oak tree next door.

A micro-climate for me and my delicate dog,

who dislikes damp feet.

Today is the second day between rivers of rain.

The sun rose between buildings

and shone onto the bush at driveway’s edge.

Mist rose up like a spirit leaving the body,

a pure thing going home.