Thunder Sky
 
A convocation swoops, dark
clouds, plum-breasted birds 
move, drawing lightning to thunder.
First: paint-white flash, 
streak and spike of light.
First: sight, fear of feeling.
 
Trees writhe.
I watch the sky twist with birds.
Lightning has stolen their names-- 
it swallows the sharp voices 
of blackbirds and starlings.
I pass luminous bushes, branches 
in the glycerin slipcoat of rain.
Pulling thunder, lightning extends 
as a clutch, as the brush 
of electric-gold wings.
 
I keep low, lay sense 
at the feet of the trees, under oaks, 
beneath the sweet drip of maple. 
I want fear to sink
with the intricate roots, 
with deft undertakers.
 
Branches plunge upward with sound.
The fissure narrows. Another plummet 
of birds and the beak finds its voice.
Lunge of light, plume, vibration.
I come out to see the plait soldered.
Forgetting fear, 
I let the beating wings
thunder me.