Soon it rains.
Not yet.
Wind hisses
through tall grass
stirring
small flowers
white yellow blue
and
leaves
of bitterscented poplar.
Anvil clouds hang low
swiftmoving
warm
gray
over green.
I smell the air
feel the land roll around me
up to the mountains
in the west.
I can turn my head
to see
flat miles of plains
growing, ripening
gray over
green.
I look to the mountains
flinty hard beauty
pushing impossible
into the soft gray.
Hanging
against bottoms
of dark thunderheads
two
redtail hawks
circle silent
wings spread in benediction.
One screams
to the wind
harsh music
gray over
green.
Rain begins
warm drink
my senses
gray
over
green.
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2 comments:
Two things: what you've written evokes strong memories not just of the feel of rain coming, but of the smell. Sometimes, if the wind is coming at you the right way, you can smell the rain coming. It's such a lush, evocative aroma.
Also, your poem makes me think of rain coming over a calm lake. If you have a vantage point, you can see it arriving, sweeping across the calm water, pockmarking it and making it hum. So, smell, sight, and eventually touch, all let you know the rain is here, or almost here.
Yes. And I'm not quite sure where this fits into your musings, Nonny -- smell or touch...? -- but here's another thing about summer rain coming in on the wind: that foggy moist warmth that washes over you before the actual rain starts... it's like breathing in a tropical greenhouse. But better.
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