It rarely rains when I visit Sedona-
Snow, yes, that happens from time to time,
but rain, not so much
Despite that, the earth is ready for it–
the smallest gullies and large washes
wait for the gushing with a perpetual yawn.
The flowers stay fetal and curled
Until the drops turn to rivulets
And trickles turn to torrents.
And then, blooms open as the sun
Bursts from behind its cloudy curtain,
Within in a time lapsed moment, water
vaporizes into the blue skies.
I climb a small red rock hill and listen
to the Native flute in the distance.
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