Yellow sky with
starlings zinging by,

a crack of wind whips
tree arms into tangles,

it storm-troops disappointed
out of sight,

as baritones inform that
farms are mangled.

Shotgun blasts of hail
thrown hard it hits,

my windowpane with
nature's angry fist,

I shoulda headed West on 51,
but sorta didn't care if it came on.



Sara Fielder © Apr 2022