This is about the Indians, resettled on desert plains and other undesirable places. This reservation was in a dry river bed ... until the rain came
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Slow Rain

Falling ... felt a slow rain,
tickled, ill at ease,
too new to bask in the breeze
the droplet merely sneezed, teased.

Trickling ... set a new pace
oozing on the plains,
a newly birthed rain.
Where were its' beds? Its' domains?

Hazy wisps of mist, fog,
embrace weeping droplets
in a cradle, puffs of clouds.
The horizon lay, a shroud.

Squalling ... seeking Mother;
wanting her warm embrace
to snuggle in serene grace.
It streamed, struggled, oozed in its place.

Drizzles truly dazzle, fills everyones thirst,
guzzle till your innards burst
but be aware of where you are,
where her lips seep and jaws maw.

Drenching ... but it can't pierce
the clay, hardened down.
Rippling waters catch, multiply;
a village is swept from the eye.

Falling ... turns a slow rain
on the uninhabited plain.

copyright 2000 Sandra S. Corona
from "A Touch of the West"