Storm Setting

I like the way the brooks leap. I like the vision
Of a sky boiling with dark smoke, but more
The mad trees and lightning making its quick incision
Through the clashing rain. Under the wild downpour

I walk thinking, breathing. Air cold and unsteady
Tugs at all bending things, and I can hear
The convulsed clouds crashing that they are ready
To prod night backward with a golden spear.

A season’s play: in the large and intricate yammer
That punctuates the wind, all voices are one.