Explosions And Colors Upon The Canvas of Heaven’s Night

As I drive just south of here I see combines in the fields
Slowly, methodically, intentionally threshing summer’s wheat,
And farther down the road another field rests empty in
Contemplation – how in decades past it was unimproved and wild,
As wild as the rains and storms of the recently passed weeks
Whereby just the other night I thought I might die by violence
Born of a lighting strike to then be pushed by the cardinal winds
Into the unkempt waters of an old flooded town, a man-made lake,
A reservoir but I knew it was not to be as I saw in the passing
Clouds, some from the north, some from the east, a near-twisting
That exhausted itself into an evening’s calm, peace and I found
Myself nearly falling asleep as the lampyridae of some
Unknown number flashed like a multitude of cameras remembering
Some great ethereal moment of the national pastime.

Without any care I will let the fourth, the summer holiday
Pass as I have already seen greater things in the quiet thunder of
Nature and on the fifth I will again drive just south of here to catch
The combines thresh upon summer’s wheat, the last
Falling, speaking, foretelling you, as well, rest, for a few days after the
Onslaught of early July’s celebration October’s weathered voice will
Cast cooler greetings, as if the gods were appeased with Man’s
Creation of explosions and colors upon the canvas of heaven’s night.


One thought on “Explosions And Colors Upon The Canvas of Heaven’s Night

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