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 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
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