Comes a gentle rain.
I move the Boston fern from the front porch
out into the rain
and, as the wind is not blowing the rain much,
I take a moment to sit on the porch
and listen to the dripping,
the soft soothe of rain on the tin barn
where, suddenly,
the Guineas are raising a ruckus.
Donning boots and jacket,
I move myself
out to the barn
to check on rabbits and hen and Guineas.
They’re sharing space now
and doing all the exploring
and testing,
making the thumping, pecking, growling, cackling
statements to each other
that creatures do when they first meet
and figure out how to live together.
Little Red Hen
pecked at Jolie this morning
when I opened all the gates,
but Jolie held her own,
once dashing right between Little Red Hen’s legs.

The rain on tin is loud in the barn
and Guineas are pacing on straw bales
atop the rabbit pen
when I arrive,
then fly down into the bigger pen
where rabbits can’t go.
Everyone seems fine.

I return to the porch
as the skies darken
and there is thunder,
far off to the East.
The air chills a bit
and the rain seems to be coming down harder.
I hear Little Red Hen
raising a ruckus now.
I leave them be
and as a kitten scurries from barn
to porch,
I just breathe,
let myself be
and listen
to the rain.
Until
there is a commotion
and Joe races across the yard.
I go again to the barn
but everyone’s fine.
Then I get a call from my sister
that the blue tractor needs to be moved into the round-top barn.
I move the tractor
and in the process see how much wonderful rain water
is flowing off the downspout of my house
into the flower bed.
I feel an urgency to capture it.
Why hasn’t this ever bothered me this much before?
Getting more and more soaked,
I manage an engineering feat
unlike me
but realize even this clever entrapment
is only going to catch
a limited amount.
I bring the buckets out to catch more
and vow to order a rain barrel
today.

I’m soaked to the skin
and reluctant
to come in
out of the rain.