Waiting for the Storm

The wings anchor the redtail hawk to the sky
in an unstable atmosphere.
In a downward spire he swoops the field.
The turkey vultures applaud from the roof line
of the white elevator. All waiting for the storm.

All we get is heavy air swooshing to the ground.

We wait.
As the earth waits.
The winter wheat sighs in the wind,
rippling like a marimba dance
with no climax.
It dips, it sways,
it ends at the field’s edge.
Next field over dead leaves and stalks
from the sorghum skitter
across the road like rodents
trying to outrun the hawk.
I brake to watch them turn from mice to leaves
at the bottom of the dry creek bed just outside of town.
The dirt road turns to pavement after the railroad tracks
where the grain bins are crumpled and falling in on themselves.
The storm broke its teeth on tin and left without a tear.