Monday I sat on the kitchen floor looking out the storm door as the weather did what it does so well: It changed. Here is what I wrote.
The morning sun hangs in the sky of grey and clouds;
wind bends all the trees, and shrubs whip around in place.
Birds voice their warning to all: “Weather is coming; things are changing!”
Liquid enters from the side, leaden streaks of wet slash the window.
Just a few at first, then more and then pour; the world is wet and wild.
Chickens run in a frenzy to the coop, to the coop,
afraid of getting wet.
And then, quietly and softly, this event has lost its will.
The chickens reemerge, a new day for them,
liquid now drips leftovers from the eves,
and my window has mere magnifying droplets left upon it.
Birds sing of their refreshed joy.
The shrubs sit contented and quiet while the trees straighten up
and the sun winks at me through the clouds as if to say,