Guardsman

The machine gun slung

on a guardsman’s shoulder, aimed

at blue sky, as if the war might be

won, if it could still be fought.

But that was a tornado, this only

a heavy storm in early summer, a kite-

cleaning for the trees, and exercise

for the long-limbed loping wind.

He is not afraid of the lightning,

but wonders, have I remembered well?

I should test my stride against

that lean racer’s, run for some low

roof the bolts pass by for a higher,

where the storm bashes itself into air.

He looks at the tree, chin thrust up

like a sailor’s.  The leaves thrash

in the fierce currents of the wind.