Weather Coming
by Vaughn Neeld

The day was hushed, still, silent
beneath the weight of oppressive heat.
Leaves hung flaccid
from drought-stressed limbs.
We waited, expectant, knowing
that out there something lurked,
waiting to pounce, to drag us down.

We lay under the bed, our burning cheeks
cooled by the linoleum floor.
Our sweat pooled beneath us.

Then, the sky grumbled; a faint breath
of moving air teased desiccated grass,
stirred draggling leaves.
The temperature dropped.
The limp clothes on the line
began to jiggle their joy.

We crept out to the protective porch,
sat where the breeze could explore
our sweat-drenched bodies.
Waiting, we sighed. Perhaps today
it would rain, give us relief–

and then we heard the cicadas sing.



 

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