Once beyond the wooded shadows 
of the road that hugs the reservoir, 
I see that rain has raised the water level  
back to the ragged bushes’ drooping edges. 
Saved again, at last, my dry breath skritches. 
                                      
Easing the itch of three years’ drought 
tugs my spirit’s skin. I try to spot 
the muddy footbridge that, 
all those drybacked months, 
stood exposed like a bad old secret 
on the shamed lake bottom.   	

Now my cheeks imagine the slap 
of small rain on the windshield, 
and my nostrils flare to seek 
ozone’s sniff of iron in the welkin.  

The old embedded song starts up again,
O western wind, when wilt thou blow, 
and I’m wondering what dog radar’s picking up, 
the two of them near enough behind me 
that I can feel their breath  
on the nape of my neck 
as they tick off landmarks, 
twitchy on the seat pads, 
counting trees and hills 
and turns toward home.