After the Rain

The bloated creek runs pewter today
ducks slide down its length
webbed feet scrabbling for purchase.
An aeroplane grips the sky
sunlight on its belly as
it turns like a lolling cat.
The words on the email dance
in front of my blurred eyes,
kicking their heels, waving
their curled feathertops.
I rest my scarred hands on
the table, count the freckles
sunspotted like mud splatters;
one of them may turn on me.
Across the old wooden bridge
cows wait for milking, unwilling,
the water rushes through the broken slats.
The first step is the hardest,
they say, but the cows roll their eyes
and shift their hooves in the mud.