After an all-night rain
learned the crooked way through adobe

and fell near my bed,
after a dream of drownings in the street,

I had to smile
at the anger outside—my neighbors

with mud on their boots
and something to talk about. On top of the corn

sparrows announce boundaries
for hours each day, their swiveling heads

aware of threats
all around. The stalks where they sing

go into the mix
and keep the mud bricks unbroken. Only

a ghostly rain
could ferret that system of micro tunnels

and hit the floor with bad clocks
and inject my sleep

with so many deaths. But the window glares
where the rain left tracks,

admitting hints
of old worlds I learned as a kid—suggestions

of gold in the mundane energy
of voices, of engines grinding in the street,

and the morning's prompted sun.