The Birds are Still Singing

I went out to take a walk and came back with a poem.
It's as if the rain dislodged words tumbling in my soul.

Drought seems more native to this land.  
We expect the barrenness.
We try to look for beauty in the play of the sun and shadows on the hills.
It's easier to remember when the landscape is drab that all Creation groans.

But today. . .
Improbably tiny flowers litter the ground with flecks of magenta and gold.
Shy amber poppies twist into themselves against the cold and rain,
Not unlike the human denizens of Los Angeles County.

I saw where the deer slept last night,
The nibbled grass crushed and now cradling the tears of the sky.
The trees hold a million budding stars.

The dark clouds swirl around the closest peaks, 
Racing down the slope and then lifting to show off their work.
"Surprise!  This is called 'snow'!"

The music of running water is foreign to this place.
The sodden path overflows with rain, becoming  
An interim river tumbling rocks down the hill,
Limestone on sandstone on snowy quartz,
Glints of pyrite beckon the fool.
(Don't forget to take those rocks 
Out of your pocket before you do the laundry.) 

The roots of the yucca burned two years ago now expelled from the earth,
Lay charred and glistening in the midst of
A diminutive Grand Canyon. 

In the drought and in the rain, 
One thing is certain:
The birds are still singing their great Maker's praise.

Let everything that has breath praise the Lord!

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