Heat swells through this high desert valley.
Swirling vapors coalesce to black
seas, roll across the heavy sky.
Thin knives cut, bruise horizonís back
then disappear in one nervous blink.
Boiling clouds rumble, pause, explode
into a crackling rain-burst, drench
the earth, the greens, the asphalt of the road.
Wind heaves, churns the sodden dust,
empty fields (wild grasses bowed to ground)
spins debris to shift at random whim.
Twisting, twisting, it whines a whistling sound.
Fluttering in the tempest,
small white wings
Rage of the squall.
Roiling, tearing, cursing.
Quiver of wings,
alone on an island
of cut tree.
© Copyright 2007 Susan M. Botich