It rained on Wednesday.

It rained on Wednesday.
I walked out to the backyard barefoot— late August—
felt the developing mud between my toes,
sat down.

I felt the cold, fresh rain on my face,
thought about the likely grass stains on my jeans
soaking through the fibers.

The sky was a matte grey 
that reached out, enveloped me.

Where the sun would have been
was the torso of a cedar along the southern fence,
which happily clapped in the rain.
I imagined,
in the loosening earth,
its roots dancing.

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