A distant crow cracks the dry sky’s
blue canopy as it flies to the next ridge.
The rustle of oak leaves catching a breeze
settle back into the silence of heat.
An insect stutters past as if knowing
of a cooler destination. It’s the briefest reprieve
from drought, this coming together,
a brush of mist as fingertips alight,
light as the lightest rain the touch of lips,
and they moisten each other.
— Walter Bargen