Summer Storm

The wind brought down

a half-dead spruce,

blue-tipped and spiny.

It buoyed for a moment,

timber twigs twining in

telephone wires,

snapping, fizzing,

can tab release of carbonated carnage.

And sparks sprayed;

cables frayed and flailed.

The lights flashed black.

The clocks lost count and faded.

And I, being sure all was quiet again,

trod gingerly in the darkness,

shadows curling close,

amorphous black cats

tracing figure-eights,

to bed where,

fatigued but not unfettered,

I began counting sheep

to reign in my ricochet mind.

At 9: a flash of black.

At 18: I lost count and faded.