Devin Johnston

 
Under rain
 
your whip antenna with
a solar cell
 
rotates, listening for
something winter
 
meant to say:
far north
 
desperate joy
without remorse
 
wakes and tilts
across the swale;
 
a slow wave
pours away.
 
Sifting bleeps
and bearing lines
 
sniff the air.
What pertains?