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.