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
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