Starlings whirl in complicated chaos
as grey clouds congregate,
a pile of dirty laundry
tossed in a corner of the sky.
"Rain's coming" the old man says,
as he hunches deep within the folds
of a tattered, well-worn sweater.
He tends his garden with
gnarled fingers twined around
the weathered handle of an old spade.
Gently building temples of soil
around delicate seedlings, just hatched...
preparing them to receive ablution.
Already they dance to an ancient wind song,
small shoots bowed to unseen gods of nature
praying for the sun.