it pitters and patters
into my ears, and
i hear the sound of nickels dropping, though
there are no tin roofs here, i hear
they have them in Fayetteville
they walk their dogs anyway, Durhamites
wearing flannel coats, with dewy eyes
smiling under knit caps for the morning, chill
softening the rain falling into animal ears, listening
for the sound of squirrel, and smelling
the rain, instead
i lay motionless in bed
the owl outside my window
does not, hoot
at the clouds slowly drifting eastward
to Wilmington, he moans
in harmony with the Avett brothers from Concord
where there is history in a song's trajectory
the hills of Boone laugh
their eyes, dancing
hidden under thick fog,
like the knit, cap
when they hear, the tune
bouncing out of valleys and under cliffs, soaring
above the clouds, and back to heaven
where the rain came, from
my head, laying motionless
atop the white feathered cloud, atop
my bed
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