Fasces

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. 

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