Outracing the Storm

the land wet and thirsty after two
weeks of blazing sun,
humidity stiffening the air
to molasses and starch,
breathing a pregnant labor
and you could break four sweats
just sitting there, watching.

now, a day of rain, two days’ storms—
the land drinks it in, lushens, ripens, flowers—
so many greens:
from darkest cloudlight
flicking off raven as he lurches
to roadside, pecks, flaps into trees—
to forest of evergreens newly
sprung from prairie lawn—
even goldenrod and tiger lilies
green in this light, under this sky.

prairie’s desperation becomes verdant forest
where everything began, that original garden
where the Hunter God still roams.

silver casts from birch leaves,
sky lightens to eastward;
I run out in front of it,
out from under the storm—
red lightning shatters a hill peak, trees
exploding every which way,
once, twice, triple strikes
along a corridor of broken air.
the stones glow: even earth
takes on fire, now.

the storm walking, clearing the way:
clearing trees with fire machetes,
clearing a path
for the god to walk.

we must pause, sometime,
in our running,
and stop to pant over our knees,
catch wind
before the winds catch up to us.
till thunder overtakes us
and we must outrace this storm—

again.