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.
