by Mark W. Kidd
Thunder can peal twice, or three times,
or not at all
when the storms come
and sound bounds between some towers and into others.
I turn a corner and hear
the steel rattle of a dying blast.
My legs catch the quickening tempo of the street,
the sure-charged pace that speeds your feet
and leaves bag strap grip-dents in your palms.
Windhovers scatter above,
rushes of wind pushing on the warp and weft
of their high haunt,
mass-flapping of wings.
Cold light on my face and hands.
Crescendo magnetic click echoes—
waves of windows sealing themselves,
throughout the city,
and those who linger outside with me
witness the thunderheads as they finally
cover the city as far as I can see.
Mark W. Kidd lives in Whitesburg, Kentucky, USA where he pursues creative and professional interests.