Far away thunder echoes 
 from the rockface. 
A strong gale bellows
up the hill from the lake-
Forest crown roaring-
Yet, here perfect-
stillness is a small Finch-bright yellow-
chirping at it’s reflection in an old Oak
 against a gray pewter polished sky.
When the first drops, wet-cold  
of rain find this dim-lit holy hold-
through the dark leather green
not yet summer pale shrunken leaves
 it becomes clear.
This sound-
was-is-will be, cannot be, isn’t wind-
That   is  not   wind.
This is a summer monsoon, come early
Heavy thick and pounding up the mountain
-rock by rock-
Clouds, bruised shadow violet veils
pour out weight onto the overstory
with the force of a rope lifted wood pail
filled to the -lip- with water, then cast
 with force by the hand of a butcher to wash
-blood from block-
 Everything is gone, it’s
 gone, they are gone: bird, reflection
Rain stops rain. Leaves are still and splayed- 
in the brilliant sudden sun. 
A quick -shifty breeze- canters through
 like a muppet, rattling everything
in the just washed brand new summer.
Chunky drips drop into the duff like they mean it.
        I am soaked
 slow-muddy river-baptism wet and laughing and-
 smiling saying-yes, oh so yesingly yes-
Holding four full pages of notes-
I can barely read.
                               -And a pen-