This ungodly summer,
Left us standing at the gate
In the field that fences in the living,
We watched them go, our blooded dead,
Through ten thousand waist-high plumes
Of stunted corn, blades curled up by drought,
Down through the thirsting woods,
Into the valley where the creek moves
Low and warm, tattered veils of morning
Lifting from the hollows buoying vultures
As they turn beneath the blinding sun,
Galaxies spinning overhead unseen,
But we know they're there above us,
And we believe the spirits will return
With the next good democratic rain,
Soaking all alike, faith enough in rain
And blood and in each other
To be rescued by the rain.
