An Old Mesquite

Even as the snow frosts
the jagged edges of the mountain,
rain fills the valley sky
dancing a flamenco rhythym
on my roof.
I watch the river each day
waiting for the red muddy waters
to swirling rise above the haunches
of an old mesquite, gnarled and bent
nearly prone from previous torrents.
I watch the crows tuck their wings
tightly agains the driving wind,
almost sleet,
but no white flecks appear
to show the effects of winter
on their wings.
I watch the skies.
I watch the river.
And I listen to the staccato bump
of raindrops on the roof
waiting for them to soften
into snow.