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When Polyhymnia sends refracted light

shimmering toward parched and shriveled roots,

seeking some semblance of promise kept alive


between her hands, her well, her seeds and soil,


A bit of fluff, a female Anna's, comes

to perch nearby, cocking its tiny head


and waiting. Waiting for the hose to steady

its cold blast toward some fainting eggplant


or tomatillo, ready for a burst of aimed


delight, catching one rainbowed drop of water

short, then flitting to the fence again,

shivering. To the Muse of hymns and farmers it's



a game, to the throbbing ball of feathers more.

Its heart will stop without the gift of rain.