The blue sky that stretches
forever turns green and black
as quick as blinking somedays,
the steady hum of cicadas
suddenly gone, replaced
by a quiet that makes skin
crinkle with the coming storm.
In this flat land, the thick, gray wall
of a cloud most folks know enough
to stray from looms across miles,
shooting bolts of white light
that threaten to burn the dried out
tumbleweeds and gnarly mesquite
cascading in all directions.
The wind blows sand with the thick
scent of what is to come, rain drops
the size of nickels followed by chunks
of ice that cover the ground like mid-winter.
Twisters sometimes follow the rain,
their wind the sound of freight trains,
holding the screams of the dead.
A hot, still day turns cool after,
the crisp reminder of the promise
that follows on the heels
of any storm.
April 18, 2015