Mini Mid-Summer Thunderstorm
Rumble riding in from the Pacific.
Waking me with disoriented questions -
Neighbors banging on my door? Earthquake?
Do I need to be on alert?
Out the door I see a telling slate sky,
dusty August foliage needing a shower,
and cloud commas scudding over dry dunes.
Barometric pressure skews the norm.
Nature’s reassuring embrace
shadowing the populated land.
Negative ion infused droplets tap out
paltry percussion on vibrating milkweed leaves.
To the north, four vultures hunch patiently
atop the dead cypress tree – prime hilltop lookout
normally occupied by Redtail hawks.
How odd – my alert-antennae still up.
But the rain-for-a-minute is over.
Thunder, miles past us now.
Cypress treetop emptied, traffic sounds resume,
salty breeze luffs my hair.
Melissa Rissman
Oceano
August 13, 2020
I'm often compelled to capture an unusual atmosphere, which lead to this poem.
You are a portal to the unconscious.
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