A Gentile Rumble

A morning of wind that rustles the trees,

with blue jays flapping and singing around.

The air smells of damp rushing through the leaves,

and distance stomps its gentle rumbling sound

Then, wind grows and grows like the plants below,

and the rumbles, now veins pulsing, striking

off in the distance in a hazed white glow,

in clouds with fingers that keep on rising

Impatient showers come dashing on down

Unrepentant air throwing cans about

The old tree crackles, tumbling to the ground–

water’s grace pelts a delicate new sprout

Then, the sun dares shine on matted streets

And creatures that trembled and hid, now feed