Flasks of air
imported from the Arctic

Circle. The sound

behind the sound
being peeled apart.

Geese honk out
of sync as they fly

overhead. Eastward bound,
they know something.

I should know better.
No rabbits, no wild

turkeys to be found. Ambivalent
clouds become less so.

Thunder breaks the moment
into dozens of pieces. No,

I change

my mind. It starts.
I get wet. Rust-hued

leaves with edges outlined
in chartreuse remind me

I’m no wicked
witch before or after

the storm. During, always
ready to throw a flame.