April comes and goes—then May breeding
thunderstorms and twisters out of the sky—
storm chasers riding asphalt ribbons,
riding adrenaline—you call.

First responders digging through rubble, listening
for signs.  You find yourself working triage,
separating the dying from those who might
be saved.  You hold a woman’s hand
and pray with her, time for a single prayer—

unaware the dust you are breathing—

Birds are singing this morning.  So much depends—
He hopes for rain, a gully washer to the west
would be the preference, if he were only God—
though grateful to be spared that awful job. 

He listens to the birds.  He listen to the birds.  He listens—


from Dust