Cedar Rain

There is a cedar tree
who I visit on each hike,
and when it rains,
the water hangs
in its fine-woven branches,
as though in a spider web–
in small, clear globes,
that reflect dark green fog,
and licorice fern,
and youth-on-age,
and my own face, too,
and the water running heavy through the creek,
and the little brown birds
jumping from one branch to the next,
knocking the pearls down, down, through the leaves,
until one hits my cheek,
cast away,
from the raindrop world.