The air tears and mends itself back together.
Crawling out from sleep, I peek between curtains . . .
Mist so thick the mountains and lake have vanished.
Only the nearest firs anchor me.
The sky cracks. The cabin quakes--
Thunder reverberates off the water
amplifying the percussion so loud
the picture window continues to vibrate.
Each blast crashes like a tidal wave
flooding the forest, then drains away
before the next giant surge.
Fir boughs hang relaxed
faded by dense gray air.
Not a chipmunk stirs.
In this cloud come to earth,
the cabin, an ark,
has yet to break
from its mooring.
This poem fist appeared in Poetry Bay.
Used here with the author’s permission.