sixty-one minutes ago, a stormy midnight;
I watched the clock hands join as lightning
struck my high pastures
only last month, a twister snatched a steer
and dropped it in my neighbor's stock tank--not a scratch
on its hide after a cylconic half mile ride
tonight I had no fear funnels would find my fields;
the distant thunder claps taunted me, reminding me
they have fierce fire, but don't always bring rain
I watched the clock, waiting for 13:02;
only last month, my wife hid with me
in our storm cellar, praying
I prayed with her, though I doubted
a god was listening, or cared; my entreaties
were not for refuge from the storm
instead, I begged the black sky
my woman would be saved from white
blood cancer--for a miracle
that was not to be--the almighty saw fit
to perform one for a dumb beast that very eve
but not for my wife of fifty years
she lasted until 1:01 AM yesterday
13:01 I strangely conceived; I had the lucky
steer slaughtered at high noon today
I'd let it rot in prairie grass, were it not
for her--she would not want it to be carrion
for buzzards, a profligate desecration
she would want its flesh to be
a feast for a family she did not know;
hands clasped, giving thanks
to the same god that saved it
but not her; I can't rest, I'll watch the clock,
waiting for 13:01 again and again