There’s a stretch along the Natcher Parkway
where the trees have no branches,
a remnant of a trauma
the clouds unleashed on land.

I first saw this place with my father
after terror’s demotion to memory;
our awe at destruction striking
so close to a place we called home.

It takes me back to a storm-filled night
as a sleep-denied child drenched
in beads of sweat and rosary-
one Hail Mary per thunderclap.

It makes me think of the American city
just minding its own business
when the wrath of windborne devils
threaten all we hold dear.

Some towns aren’t very lucky.
Some get wiped from the map.
People die in gross miscalculations
of the reach of nature’s power.

Others pay attention, sounding
alarms at first signs of danger
so parents, siblings, children
can brace themselves in bottom floor bunkers.

They huddle together in the dark
hoping for a home to return to.
They offer up similar prayers,
Please deliver us from the storm.

Then the noise dies down and the chaos soon passes,
the calm inevitably restored
save for a subtle fear of what could have been;
not all are as fortunate.

Those who get spared offer what they can
to alleviate those affected,
each time wondering when is our time
to be the victims of a vicious sky.

Thus I watch for a stretch along the Natcher Parkway
where the trees have no branches,
a reminder of greater forces always around us.
Respect for the Earth is earned.