Morning Thunderstorm

I hear thunder
before I carry trash out
to the roadside.
I get hit by scattered drops
of rani as I walk back
to the house.

I watch a chubby field mouse
dart from grass where the crack
in the highway begins. It stops,
frightened by me, no doubt,
not by a poet’s eye or thunder.

I get inside before rain
falls, blown diagonally by wind.
Long minutes I stand
at the kitchen windows,
looking out; seeking poetry.

I find a form poem; I see
three robins emerge as rainfall slows
to a trickle. They hop, for they understand
that worms come out
after thunderstorms end,
the way hunger & drought ebates, with rain.