He knew enough not to come in out of the rain.
Snout to the sky, accepting the washing of coat, the cooling of hide.
Air spirits, freshly baptized, met the upturned face,
gave up their story of ocean gifts,
the friendship of clouds.
Thunder and lightning spoke the gift's power.
Thank you moon for tides,
for all the mysterious surging that brings the winds.
Thank you for the tranquility that makes the moisture mine.
Tonight the clouds block your loveliness but not your gravitas.
The sun is hot but distant,
giver of vision but drying of moisture.
Tonight a cooler, closer hand is needed
to gently stir the planetary forces without disturbing the fragile ozones.
Rumbling, bumbling on.
Rain stops and clouds break
The silver eye lured the bear home.
Written by: Pat Conover, 1978.