Evening. All day long
south wind piled humidity
into lumps above parched prairie,
and now towering thunderheads advance.
As skies darken above the little town,
buzzards coast past violet clouds
on unstable copper currents.
Been praying for rain, have you?
Might be in line for an answer.
Hope so. Yep. Hope so.
Nice evening all the same.
Then it comes to you, distant,
between the screen door banging
and the kids in the yard
and the fluttering of cottonwoods.
There's a rumble, pretty sure,
from the southwest
beyond the cedar-studded hill,
the one hill,
the cemetery hill
that forms the too-close horizon.
Did you hear that?
And then sure.
And the buzzards have left the sky,
and the copper has turned to iron.
The trees still dance
but the air is all rumble now
and more like a roar.
Conversations on the front porch stop,
and people who have ridden hot wind
all their lives now know for certain.
And the rumbling roar is pierced
by howling, whistling,
and the dogs go berserk,
and two longs and a short
and a longer long, and
a fast-rolling load
from the pits of Wyoming
follows the whistle
over the crossing
by the lumber yard,
and the roar becomes a clatter
and a clatter and a squeal
and a distant lower moan
and she's all gone
past the edge of town
and over the creek
and gone.
And words can be heard again
and conversations start.
Been praying for rain, have you?
Might be in line for an answer.
Hope so. Yep. Hope so.
Nice evening all the same.
Yep. Nice evening.
