Back to its source

The coyotes all begin at once
as if they hear some sort of
internal, animal call to prayer.

In this place the
rain and sun have
both done their work,
drying out and
making wet again.

But being washed does not
always make a thing clean,
and anyway I don’t think
I want to sit here anymore

learning to live with
less and less water
while others seem
to drink their fill.

In the kitchen my mother hands me
a stack of my grandfather’s poems
and I wish not only my 10 year
old self had known him.

But the reading
brings understanding

and I know that even
with our irregular trajectory
each drop will eventually
lead us back to its source.