This poem, from the perspective of a camera, begins with a close-up, pulls back to a long shot, pans over a large area, and then ends with a middle shot.
This morning’s paper
delivered the soaked news.
Driveway drain backs up,
the garage begins to flood.
Coastal oaks, parched for months now,
will be refreshed; wild grass
will grow green-long in rings
beneath rough-bark branches.
Fire-scorched hillsides soak until
soil slumps onto roads and homes.
Dry stream beds full of beer cans
foam cups, condoms, and animal scat
flush into the Pacific.
Frogs pop out of the mud near vernal ponds,
sing, mate, and create polliwogs
that dart around the mallards.
Fields soaked, Mixtec farmworkers
hunker down in the dank motel rooms of
Santa Maria, Salinas, and Watsonville.
Poppies and lupines will soon bloom
orange/blue along the 101.
On the slopes of the Coastal Range
mountain lions slip through wet chaparral.
Up among the gray and coulter pines
and the high canyon stands of Douglas fir,
black bears wait out the storm
in caves where stone-age folk
transformed by snow.