A Gold Rain at Lonelyfarm That rare peculiar rain comes heightening, turns the clay gold from red. And for a while, the after-rain light delays dark settling in. A sorry patch of tobacco leaves waves. It slopes away to the road. Lightning bugs whiten the weedhairs, some loose ones by the back steps. It’ll be coming dark now. Dark’ll come and be my fault. What I want and my fault, dark’ll move on the house in the field.
