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.
In the Air
In the Air
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.