Thundering Pitter Patter

At first it blows in through the front screen door
The leaves rustle and swirl upward

Will it be a mile wide?
Come in the night? In the dew-laden pitch black of summer’s wonder?

The sky darkens, but, “Well, it’s eight o’clock anyways buddy”

No reprieve
No night shift of wakefulness

Is that what makes these old windows drip and melt?
The pounding, beating, sideways-driven, gust-hurled storm drops?

This is MY LAND

Rolling and gorgeous
Shrieking and terrifying

Soul wrenching

Barren and fertile
a miasma of nature’s obstinacy

And the tracks rattle and clank
Even a mile distant

Trains, always trains, in this, my forlorn, my God damned

my land





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