After a Rain

by PM Flynn

The rains came while I slept, a sleep of forgetting the broken pictures

I remember for a few more moments. I know because a steady drip

of faces in my dreams.



Darkness lingers in the thick clouds covering evening’s light,

the eastern horizon edges a wall of haze traveling with words

in other tongues.



A solitary bird flies east, an omen to medicine men, a reminder of

one’s own journey. The bird, black against the gray morning,

speaks its only prophecy given at creation. The rains have come again.



I no longer sleep in strange places, over grave, shadowed faces.