Kineo Rain
        Moosehead Lake, Maine

Rides Kineo’s back like regiments of ghosts.
Comes shudderingly up where there are hills
and no hills, spins its spray on the near-dead
grass, and distresses the greying lake
with the side of its hand.

Takes a tall man’s stride
up the shore of skipping stones, surprises the duck
who snaps blueberries off their spread,
draws a wall of baptism down the lines of the porch,
where the Adirondack chairs sit soggy with relief.

 The minister next door takes his shoes off,
 reaches up for water, arms windmilling
 like St. Andrew on his cross;
 from his side pours rain, white horses
 shaking sky onto his pleased feet.