THE MOTH

 

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

catch light

otherwise forgotten.

 

Rage of the squall.

Roiling, tearing, cursing.

Quiver of wings,

alone on an island

of cut tree.

 

 

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© Copyright 2007 Susan M. Botich