Category: Poetry and Other Writing

It was just some 
cumulo-nimbus blown 
upcountry - a brash 
rattling of brown 
leaves. The town stood 
sentinel as dusk
scuttled the last light 
and we, each 
of us, turned back
inside.

Doors apocopated, the thunder
presaged, cozened by stacks 
of cut wood under
eaves, warm orange 
light sealed in 
windows.

Of each home
the storm broke
them all.

At dawn we gathered by the church
and counted ourselves
breakfasted on toast
tasting of kerosene and 
butter

and got to work.

Listened as the
wind sieved through our
knotted bundle of broken reeds
for that first 
bone-haunted loon cry.