Jenny Gillespie The soaked bluebirds hide in the palisades of drooping boughs. The duskywing arcs through the ostinato of rain. This rain believes in only itself, lost and ecstatic as a crowd inside a revival tent. On and on the gush, like buffalo, like smoke from a wounded house. In a room below the mountain, our paints and instruments lay still where we left them, in cold, silky light. Yesterday we ached for bombs and psalms on palettes...