If I were to wind myself around the willow tree, gone now from the front yard, I would do it one leg at a time, feel the bark dig into my palms, forearms, tiny fragments of damp bark, flakes mostly, tangling in strands of wet hair, holding on for dear life, arms and legs locked there, still.
The thunder is rolling in. I've been waiting for it all night. Rumbling starts off to the west, teases, is that thunder I ask myself, knowing that it could just as easily be me, my head, heart, red fire wanting ahead of the front, low end shaking, windows chattering back.
No, yes, it's thunder, pushing, rolling, close, touching but not here yet, for the fourth time this month my arm hairs tingle just before the rumbling starts, I catch myself inhaling, charged air smells different.
Come then, come on. Finish what you started, crack the sky mosaic, bring down my house.
