Clouds move over the hills in blackness, a warning of the tremulous voices that will bellow into the hazy sky ahead, rolling like oil smoke towards the house. Children continue to run in the courtyard with their handmade kites, fashioned to branches of core-dead trees, not realizing they are becoming fleshy lightening rods. Thunder comes first in a slow, bitter boil, a sound felt in the bones before it is heard; the electricity creeps through the heat, lifts hairs from skin and quickens the heart. In this cosmic turning, birdsong ceases, no notes of spring laced in the wind blowing hard; kites tense on long yarns and fishing line while tender young curls of hair mix wildly in the air. We escape the first clap and bolt by only mere seconds, darting through raindrops bigger than life itself, and sit laughing on the stoop, each inspects the others dirty feet and grass stained fingers. Rain pours down in sheets as if invisible curtains were sent to cover the sun. I sit on the bed with windows opened and mist touching my face pressed into the screen. The thunder now ominous is followed with flashes bright and defined. The parking lot floods, water rushes into the grate, adds to the symphony of raindrops on steel chairs, wooden planks, concrete ,and tile. It is a rushing that pushes into the heart like the sound of your voice, low in my ear.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Kendra Steiner Editions 5/08