In the Air
In the Air
The storm — not a day old — went walking
Off on foal-like legs of yellow lightning,
Bellowing in a voice I don’t have
To describe, slobbering over the fields.
It was what the farmers had prayed for,
Kneeling in the white clapboard church.
Between Sundays, wasps had hung their nest
Off the bell’s tongue. The man whose job it was
To ring it was tolled not to, the pun lost
In the air between the priest who made it
And the lady who wanted to know why
She hadn’t heard the bell that morning.