The air so still, so heavy, so ---yellow. Matches the chicken
streak down my spine, closes
'round the throat with hands of
fear. Not again: this is my life,
running from storms, both real
and imagined: just one time, I
would like to run toward: feet
programmed to turn the other
way, looking for somewhere to
hide. Never liked terror-filled
skies, full of light and noise ---
always had Mommy and Daddy
to hold me. Compared to the
monsters on the Plains, those
of youth were nothing: these
guys are serious: their mouths
roaring with wind and rain, arms
pitching hail and tornadoes,
reaching out to snag my ankles,
determined to pick me up: my
parents can no longer save me.
Have to confront the monsters
on my own: just don't know how.
(c) 2008, Karla Dorman.
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