Bamboo Shoots

Before three days of rain,

your green bullet faces

barely poked through

sun-baked clay.

 

In the loam, below

late afternoon, I admire

ecstatic upturned palms

of radish sprouts

 

awaiting their Rapture.

Then I notice you,

now standing taller

than my head.

 

You are hollow

sentinels, black and lithe

as newborn crickets

chirping warnings

 

below my bedroom

window. This is a space

for which I am grateful

you have decided

 

to defend with your

eager lives, spear-straight,

into the slippery

panting night.