I climbed the mountain, to its inmost crags
I climbed and found no rain;
only the steady dry southwester there,
beating and bending the seagreen hemlock boughs.
No squrrrel sang there,
nor fawn’s foot rustled the early-fallen leaves,
nor partridge boasting in the underbrush
drummed on a log
The springs were dry,
the streambed stony there, its pools half-stagnant,
with snakes beside them dozing, and the trout
gasping and dying at the waters brim.
A man was there
who prayed for rain, who danced for rain, who sang,
aiyee, the lightning splits the skies apart
and rain pours out of them, aiyee, the meadow
dances with corn, the mountain sings with rain.
His voice died out
there in the wind, among the sun-bleached stones.
Sing if you must, old friend, dance if you will;
this month will give no answer to your prayer.
It is August, the dry season of your life.
Take out your heart and wring it between your hands;
no pain will dart, no blood will drip from it
No blood is there.
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