Night 23 December 1977 Tucson It is raining in the desert, that rare desert rain. I have set out containers under the eaves. Rain will fall around the containers but will fall into them, too, and for a week or two or a month, there will be water for certain plants, water with less alkali dust. My friend Robert is spending a month alone in Sabino Canyon. I hope tonight he has a tent, a shelter, to be warm under while he harks this rain’s falling in the hair of his soul. I hope he isn’t chilled and has the arms of his listening circling him like a healer’s song with footsteps dancing inside his ribs around a low fire of embers and stars and quiet laughter. I have sent out poems, mischievous, full of pagan joy, sparked with winter solstice shining in green windfall from high mountain trees. Even in the poems is desert, even in the poems high trees let fall green, even in the poems filters the rare desert rain. I send them to fill with the rare love of my rare friends. That will last a little while, then I’ll send out more. I set out containers for this rare desert rain. It will last a little while.