cascades of lightning through
polished glass panes crease the
worry lines on the forehead of
the wild-haired girl who ran
over the raccoon this evening

driving on backroads flying 
sixty-five to beat the storm
she sang along to fleetwood
hoped that her pa would look 
down and smile at the thing
she’d become at eighteen

worried about the world still
scared of thunderstorms in 
summer where the wind grows
restless and unpredictable as
the words that followed her home