The wind dies, and the forest’s ragged sprawl
rights itself in a spell of calm. No sound
louder than dwindling dew’s snail-noiseless crawl,
than button-heavy acorns hitting ground.
A nuthatch prying pleats of oak bark loose
peppers my crackling quilt. Dreamy, I waken
as heaped in leaves as Rip Van Winkle, whose
rags bore the weight of twenty autumns shaken.
As I browse a folded paperback, a herd of
gray-bellied thought-clouds jostle, building volt
in a mind too blank blue to bear one word of…
—crack, one charged line ejects a soundless bolt!
My brain reels, fused and smoking! Seared with wonder,
I rise, electrified, and feel the thunder.