Washington Rain Poem by Nate Truman

I meet another beat up Volvo
as I ride through the forested twists and turns,
blackberry bushes lining acre after acre of bovine pasture.

Slow, steady, fleeting,
the everheard pitter patter of the San Juans
beats upon the windshield.

The overcast homes of angels lay upon me, smothering this small, isolated place of organic eating, alpaca wearing, save the snails and save the whales
boom children.

The everpresent, overgrown afro mindlessley chatters to me until we arrive.
Back again...
Damn