Rain

At Wentworth Falls
Suddenly there beyond the drop of trees:
a dense grey masking skylines of rock,
that red figure on the valley floor.
Clay trickles towards me; I climb
casually, as if in clear weather,
past the couple under shelter, hear
the watery echo of my steps behind me,
my skirt bunched against drenching.
From inside this car, the rain is
a cool noise healing the mountain's
dryness before summer. My hair drips
on the page as I write — becoming
misted in until I turn the key, drive
with an open window past drowning vistas.