June 7, 2016

before the hurricane comes

The storm hasn't yet made landfall, but you wouldn't know it from the words
"state of emergency" crossing the governor's lips, and the sudden beeline
to the bread aisle, and the forlorn looks of children ordered off the sand
despite the castles in the midst of their assembly. Everyone's craning their necks
to the sky, hoping for a glimpse of what will follow, but the answers live
inside invisible currents of air moving at a clip that bears no easy navigation.

This morning, waking early, I heard the littlest breeze pass through the backyard;
the birds, if they knew, did not betray a thing. And yet, there is no going back,
and I'm at the window now, too, hoping I'll remember the blue of this particular
Tuesday morning, and the songs I heard coming from the branches.