Morning after Rain
by Richard Weaver
Beneath the willow where I slept
I heard a chattering of dark birds,
the red song of a fox and the river
murmuring with its mouthful of rocks.
I’m a stranger to this world
and yet a part of it. The wind familiar
but more like a distant cousin.
It blows the willow branches
so they sweep the sky.
And even now that the rain has left
it continues speaking
through the long reeds
along the riverbank,
both of us waiting
for the nightmist to lift
as the sun catches fire
and the emperor’s river wakes.
Richard Weaver lives in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, acts as the archivist-at-large for a Jesuit college and is a seasonal snowflake counter (unofficially). Most of his life has been spent in Alabama or New Orleans. Some recent poetry acceptances include Juxtaprose, Kestrel, Hamilton Stone Review, Sequestrum & Algebra of Owls. This poem is part of a larger group centered on the life and art of Walter Anderson, a Mississippi Gulf Coast artist who died in 1965.