Beginning

The path is damp through slick rocks
And over fallen needles.
It only takes a small rain

And the desert is, briefly,
Slippery again. Prisms
Flash from needles still on twigs.

The pines are no less scruffy,
Rusted, and sparse than before,
But they do seem livelier.

Here at the far end of fall,
The first rain in a long time,
And likely the last until

The first snow, proves renewals
Come in other forms than spring.