After the Rains

The dirt hills have turned to black.
The mounds, unbalanced, are veering
their curves into trails of sand.
The grass is emerging
on the clay and rock ground
patterned like the wrens and speckled grouse.
Above it, the ecru of sage and wings of green
on zebra-skinned greasewood, and finally,
that burst of chautreuse that's palos verde limbs.

The mountains are blue, with patches of white
where stone can be radiant gold, and patches
where clouds blacken the houses. The water
is gone, except for the steam off the rocks
and the deep red where rivulets ran.