it is the time of prophets now
with their rumbling voices.
the land breeds them thick
as camelthorns, these old ones.
their skin crusted like dams,
they watch the first jacaranda buds
purple the lip of the tree.

weather legs chronicle the cold
rising from September ground.
they follow the butterfly
flying on snow wings, to light
their raindrop shapes on petals.

they tap their sticks in exclamation.
the butterflies did so ten years ago,
remember that great wetting,
when the heavens rinsed the desert
and cars, camping in river beds,
were flung into the upper tree reaches
in the freak floods that filled the papers.

they watch with lightning eyes
as the dirt whirlpool
flings its fine sand into faces.
they point to the ant colonies,
to the lone songololo scurrying.

in a rattle and creak of bones
the sky diviners clear their throats
and spit the first drops into the dust.
in tongues sure as thunder
they divine a season of good storm.