The sky pours recklessly, whipping
fractured black locust branches
through gray haze, unleashing thunder
so close it cracks beneath my ribs.
Empty suet cages rip from the limbs
of our crepe myrtle, swept away
into some storm drain oblivion.
House sparrows gather, scatter, puff
their rain-freckled bodies as mist
rises hot from the church parking lot.
Lightning veins down everywhere,
June streamers. White electric lines
from heaven. Everyone gathers
in the suburbs to survey the damage.