The sky, above us here, is open again.
The sun comes hotter, and the shingles steam.
The trees are done with dripping, and the hens
Bustle among bright pools to pick and drink. . . .
But east and south are black with speeding storm.
That thunder, low and far, remembering nothing,
Gathers a new world under it and growls,
Worries, strikes, and is gone. Children at windows
Cry at the rain, it pours so heavily down,
Drifting across the yard till the sheds are grey. . . .
A county father on, the wind is all—
A swift dark wind that turns the maples pale,
Ruffles the hay, and spreads the swallows’ wings.
Horses, suddenly restless, are unhitched,
And men, with glances upward, hurry in;
Their overalls blow full and cool; they shout;
Soon they will lie in barns and laugh at the lightning. . . .
Another county yet, and the sky is still;
The air is fainting; women sit with fans
And wonder when a rain will come that way.
This poem is in the public domain.