Desert days creep,
begging on the roadside for water—
but are ignored.
July brings humidity,
lightning flashes through purple skies,
an usher seating latecomers.
Low rumbles over distant Rincons
chariots over rocky mountains,
demanding attention like spoiled children,
spitting tantrums of rain
on the sun-cracked coliche.
Awakening toads, rushing waters fill dried river washes—
The toads softly begin a song, praising the rain;
calling to ceremony, a frenzied mating ritual.
By morning, the toads are gone,
hidden beneath sand and mud
taking with them the rain,
the next generation of troubadours.
2015 copyright by Katie Pifer http://www.witchpetals.wordpress.com