The Rain Barrel Learns the Names of Storms

At dusk the barrel gathers the sky in its black tin throat, a patient echo. A moth circles the rim like a torn note, testing the air for a place to land.

By midnight it has remembered gutters, the copper taste of roofs, the quick step of thunder moving across the alleys with wet boots and no apology.

In the morning I lift the lid and find the water carrying a broken fir needle, a gum wrapper, one pale feather that looks like the address of a bird.

I pour a cup and the garden drinks as if listening to a story told in sleet. Even the stones seem briefly unguarded, their blunt faces washed to a quiet shine.