Archive
07/04/11
The Third of July
This typically too-humid late Sunday afternoon, Just about the highlight-of-the-day time When we've planned to spend the next few hours Turning my high-rise's swimming pool Into an exotic-isle-getaway Club Med, The breeze-twisted limbs of the hissing trees Begin to translate the sky's seething demotic Into the fulmination of a Midwest summer storm — Something forebodingly fierce, even frenzied, Racing across the darkling horizon, toward us, Bent on blowing, sweeping, shoving us back indoors.
Before we can raise the living-room window shades, We're rocked by three percussions of raw thunder. Suddenly, crazily raging electric bolts — Silvery gold silks spit by a sky-spider's spinnerets — Etch themselves across our awe's retinas. We're stunned by these pyrotechnics, Especially Southern Californians Savvy and Parker, Who've never reckoned with lightning of any kind. For the next hour, we stand transfixed, "wow"ing, Knowing that tomorrow's fireworks Can't hold a Roman candle to this celestial display.
07/04/11
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