Under a thunderhead

Under a thunderhead
in a suddenly darkened field,
straight-backed against a stone,
I wait
like a hunted thing
charmed into paralysis
by a great predatory growling
distantly igniting the silver lining,
blowing the fuse
of everything I was promised
as the trees fill
their great sails
and the ridge line fails —
that great wall breached!
Under the thunderhead
I am still here
as the temperature drops 5 degrees
because, not I,
but something being born in me,
that has storm-tested wings,
wants to stay no matter what,
instead of dashing for the house
to watch from inside
as I have watched,
how many storms?
unhinge this gentle place,
trap the stillborn moment,
in that coppery light
while the ever-breaking wave,
the wind,
drags that weighted curtain,
of the rain we always say we need,
across the ecstatic valley.

Gary Lindorff