The Storm (16)

The day is dark.
The wind comes
as I write
and I wonder
if the rain will follow.
I hear thunder in the south
rolling out of the sky.
The wind gods blow
the fan palms
their warm breath
gusting down
into my garden.
The misters go haywire
but even as little white drops
cling to each hair on my arm
I am hot inside the gods’ breath.
I hear cars on Highway 111
but they are changed
a stampede of large beasts
running before the coming storm.

I like it
this wild animal of a day
like nothing I’ve known
in this dry desert summer.
The wildness speaks
to something hidden in me.
I want to roar and leap.
I want to swallow
black clouds
chew the gravel of thunder
breathe out fire.
I want to beat on a big drum
standing on the ridge-top
then glide across the valley
to land in the big palm of my garden
a huge black raven
cawing my delight.

[Editor’s note: Photograph © R. Silvey from: http://media.photobucket.com/image/dark%20clouds/rsilvey/Weather%20Photos/Clouds/287c3440.jpg?o=5.]