cloudy roadHungry, you wait like a hawk

or a raven perched on the edge

of a blank page, watching,


listening, thinking, & feeling . . .

you follow the wind driven by

thunderstorms, spruce cones


pelting the back yard, maples

flailing to a branch-breaking

frenzy . . . then pausing, quiet,


followed by the distant roll

of thunder rumbling & growing

louder, closer . . . the wind is


back, & the cat takes shelter

in the rafters of the garage,

the late afternoon sunlight


has dimmed yellowish-gray

in the smoky haze—forest

fires burning not far away, now


raindrops plop, dot the cement,

stop . . . just when you thought the storm

would blow over, pass south, you


jump when lightning flashes & thunder

crashes—the low growling tumbles

to crack & groan—a popcorn patter


of rain begins, escalates to rattling

downpour, a brief onslaught

just short of deluge, that cooling


quench, the satisfying balm

of a late-August thunder poem

coming to fruition, breathing


that smell you know you’ll never

forget, & this weathering, this

hunkering inside the bone cave,


feeding skull fire, that appetite

for the storm—& this odd need,

your constant craving to chronicle,


to capture & craft, to tell this tale

simply, be witness to wild beauty—

another tempest beyond your grasp.


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