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Storm Coming

Even in the barn, air faintly stirs. Outside, grass begins to pray, and bushes flatten their ears. Tumbleweeds nuzzle free. They dash one at a time across the road and briefly cling to the fence before taking off again. Seething their leaves, poplar trees bow toward Mecca. And my hair wakes up, recognizing that lightning is alive somewhere. Not yet, but soon - any minute - the universe will split into its trillions of atoms. Secretly, not telling anyone, my fingers build their little church and wait for what they know is coming. No one can stop it, just have to bow and wait: - I knew I shouldn't have said what I did.

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