a sky that brims with thunderclouds
and air that’s thick with promised things
a front that’s coming from the south
the color of a pigeon’s wings

the creek is swelled, with rushing sounds
with foam and dirt and strength of will
and speedy driftwood drifting down
as lowlands quickly start to fill

at length the pounding water slows
and winds that howled are tamed to ease
the air is honeyed as with cloves
from petrichor and linen leaves

the clouds relinquish briny hues
and let themselves be taken white
the sky demands its tenant’s dues
and overcomes with shining light