A cloud, surfing on a raindrop,
Makes the gray tulips happy again, sprinkling
holy water on the hands of the grass.
The blue in the sky peels off, made
green by the frogs in the pond.

Somewhere a baby awakes, awaiting
its reward; it cries until
the dragonflies serve him his royal milk.

The eyes of the jackrabbit jump up
and down, eager
to light up the night with their
orange pupils glistening in the sand.

Distand drums can be heard in far-off
Fillmore; I think it's Ginger tonight. Here
comes the fill-silence. He
hears the click of the crickets' teeth longing
for hibernation; gone with the Peace
of a San Franciscan night.