Standing beneath the pinion tree
I am almost dry, while all around me
the rain almost attacks the road.
I lean my head against its shagging bark
and watch the world transform from dust
to shine. Thunder rends the darkened sky.
I knew when I began the ride
the rain was impatient.
I knew it would be no gentle shower.
How odd to trick myself into being
caught in a storm. How often I choose the gale.
Small bits of bark tear off in the wind,
fall to the cactus, the dirt. Eventually,
I am no longer content to watch
and pull my bike into the rain. Wasn’t
this what I wanted somehow, to be
unguarded, exposed, out? Within a minute
my clothes stick to my skin, and I shiver,
in part from the chill, in part because
I, too, have become a shining thing.