Clouds gather,
angels flap and fly away;
a sweet old lady wonders
“Oh dear, a storm is on its way.”
A storm is on its way,
always in some state of advance.
That's the trouble.
The storm itself is just a chance for rain.
Lightning explodes at the periphery.
Inside lights flicker,
everything shudders
with each subtle quake;
a child screams,
pulses pace quicker,
faces pale,
lips udder prayers that what is not yet here be over soon.
The anticipation of impending doom
so often anticipates
a doom
that rarely impends.
