The wind trees up,
driving a pile of mischief,
rousing leaf rabble
and a scramble of squirrels.
Pelting rain drop-kicks
the sink window pane.
Water’s kettled, coffee’s ground,
but it’s a storm that’s brewing.
God’s baby Jesus rattle claps,
His thunder clobbers its drum.
Clouds clot and muscle up dark
like a bucking bull riled in the chute.
Ear throbbing to the pandemonic fuss,
I will my little house stout:
Ride it out, I say.
I say, ride it out.
Stormy view from Mt. Locke, JMN, 2009, photo. (Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)
(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)
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