I can feel the storm coming,
a system the weather reports warn
will move through the area
between midnight and early morning.
My restlessness is lit by the smell
of chemicals in the air, offset
by the sound of something kindled
as if on the other side of the world.
How do crops hold up their heads
to a battery of rain? I dream of swollen
star-apples, ruddy santol, Spanish
plums dipped in salt. By the fence,
wild berries scribble tiny hearts
along the ground. A thud in the eaves
could be the sound of flight
interrupted, a body reorienting
to the map. I pray to the heavenly ox,
to the clouds that bolt the axles
of the cart to the shaft— if it
should finally want to go, let the end
be swift. Let it come easy in sleep,
in her own bed, at the end of the day.
In response to Via Negativa: Night World.