little ragged dark clouds are scudding, as they say,
just over the treetops.
Something in the calm air,
like held breath, has swallows darting
all directions in frantic preparation.
There is purpose in that sky
and no blue in sight.
Are the swallows enjoying this?
Yesterday evening when the tornado sirens
howled over the town, my impulse
was to go outside and see. Pickup trucks
came from every valley to park
in the hilltop cemetery, on the ridges,
any high ground to watch the horizons from.