Heap

Red clouds glide
over the valley
where my city
steeps in rivers
high from rain.
Mist takes over
glass, like residue
from passing ghosts.
Lights hang reflected
on the wet street
like a second sky.
Insects drunk
on the moisture
sing and scrape
their legs together
in their colonies
beneath the molding
heaps of leaves.
An arrowhead hangs
from a chain
around a woman’s neck
and sways.