Storm.

Clouds march to the edges of horizon,

gods among mountains.

The wind, a playful thing, sings its

tunes, as the piper whistles his song.

Trees now dancing puppets for

their gleeful puppeteer.

Branches shake like skeletal beasts.

Leaves chatter their teeth.

Gusts send the graveyard call, and birds

scream out frantic warnings

I hear! I hear!

Swing low! Soar close!

and then fall silent. They sit still

to the music, as the storm and

the piper parade ever closer.

Static clings to bodies and to rock, and

a graying tangerine vision blankets

the world, the taste of rain and mud

and electricity settles heavily on my tongue.

I roll it around. Savor the flavor.

As the dark mass overtakes hilltops.

Descend with a howl.

Turn day into night.

Blot the sun from the sky, she

burns our skin and harvest. Let the rains

wash away sins of solar fire.

Lightning strikes far off.

Thunder follows a heartbeat.

And like those huddled others in trees.

In the ground.

Under rooftops.

I wait.