For Caleaf at 16 weeks
Rain falling in soft
cadence under the juniper
drops filling, tipping
rolling off branches
in dollops so cold they burn.
He is any small animal
a kit, a coyote pup,
leaning into weather
solemn, deep in his senses—
the chief inlets of Soul
Blake tells us,
and is he all soul
or all body?
No concern of his.
He presses away
from my arms. No idea,
but in green gray
shadow, archipelagos
of black water
on asphalt,
dark wet shining.
His hand goes out,
cupped for the raindrop
in this first storm
of the world