For years, the creek

stayed dry, no rain

made it move, no storm

set it free. It seemed just dust

and dry bones lived there

and some sad shoots, still

with hope. I would go there

in the mornings, searching

among the stones and sand

for arrowheads, which may

have washed down to rest

with untouched rocks, yet

were never found, and maybe

were never there at all.


The drought dug in, so deep

we all felt that change

had come for good. But

last night, a dark sky

filled with light, the rain

streamed down, and hail

the size of juniper berries

filled the canyon, the seeds

of ice taking root

in the flow, which now

has awakened a chorus

of frogs, all of whom

have been waiting all their lives

for the chance to sing.


Ryan Bayless lives in Austin, Texas and is an Associate Professor of English and Fine Arts at Texas A&M University-Central Texas. His book, Driving Under the Influence of Hawks, was a finalist for the 2016 Codhill Poetry Award, and his poems have appeared in The Wayfarer, Canary, The Aurorean, Right Hand Pointing, Visitant, Tipton Poetry Journal, Written River, and elsewhere.