The parrot hangs down from the bottlebrush,
everywhere there’s leftovers from storm.
The rain needs no actual photo, you smell
its rare, pleasant odour on the town’s skin.
There’s the awkward bow to music
you must not make.
There’s no midpoint, only angles between
streets, sightlines along garden paths
to hidden yards
where citizens have no need today
to sneak water from the failing wells.