thunder saw the eye of storm, it saw cutting
wind, hail crashing down hard. mud on streets,
snapped limbs swooped,
zig-zag bolted sky. slick night dash of cars.
things built of metal, left out turned to rust.
banging shutters tapping house like a drum, or
fingers scratching them like washboards in a
jug band.
listen to backdoor radio, jamboree of the night.
nighttime animal sounds on speaker, thunder
greeted broiling sky, lit-up like a firecracker
show. refuse flew in cloudless sky, rain
put out fire. crickets played fiddles in grass,
as wind blew panpipes. people heard nature's
chords as a eulogy to the snake-skin
of parted days.
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Ash Slade lives in Wolcott, Connecticut. In her spare time, she composes and reads poems and short stories. Previous publications include: The Lincoln Underground, Trouvaille Review, and most recently in October Hill.
