it is the angry bold and black;
the boiling thunderhead’s attack
that spins the light to gold
some strange effect of darkness
that makes the air rich
a wealthy inheritance raining down
upon the eager up-turned faces
and upon the backs of heads
too tired, too wet to notice
their bathing in brilliance
too bent and borne down
to feel this sent and crashing baptism
that need not be cared for nor even seen
to effect a man and woman unclean, now clean