Rain drizzles, dwindles down and stops
as he stretchesarthritic arms up in staccato
thrusts – exposes palms and throws prayer skywards
in psychotic chants only heaven can bear. Finally,
tires then slowly sits back, leans on willowed
limbs fashioned to rock and creak
into wooden troughs worn smooth from this one
redundant act. This sculptured precipice where
his mother’s water burst forth – like tears from a savior –
a flood so pained only god could endure. Now, he
leans as dusk spills free from canyon edge,
contemplates reflections of an opaque sky as it glistens
from watery remnants in the hard packed clay.
Waiting alone for it to slowly seep into ground or air,
preparing for yet another prayer, cloud or mumbled chant.