Wind tumbling through 
knocking over all 
in its path. Temperatures
spiraling down,

there’s a storm brewing.

As the small drops
merge into ginormous clumps,
the scooter you left 
in the lawn 
begins to rot. 

The pitch black
only illuminated
by those jagged
white arrows
paired with clashing
so loud
dogs are howling 
back. 

Feeling the house 
begin to shake,
the screen-door cries
out for help.

Small chirps emerge 
from the back porch.
The dozen or so
wind chimes your grandmother 
insisted on hanging
sing to the storm.
—

Sun beams beating heavily 
creating a perfect 
ring, like an umbrella,
inhibiting any rogue pellets 
from striking 
your grandmother

displaying your favorite chime 
decorated with cherry red
cardinals.