A river rolls along, slow in orange afternoon haze Sun rises a ball of red in Mississippi Valley Folks there hardly notice or think it strange when summer follows rain Meanwhile, for all those swollen bushes briars, brambles and weeds overwatered, drying fast on San Gabriel slopes likely come summer’s answer— hot pink evenings orange nighttime ridges lovely in firestorm glow when ashes of burned lives fall like rain and sun rises bloody, unfamiliar in yellow murk and we’ll not call it ebb or flow or rain’s result but think it strange