Not a calm but a
restlessness, leaves flipped open as in prayer, flag
half swaying half mast, the first drops a mist
like spit on quivering
daisies. A sideward wind on a cast
iron bench, palm fronds whisper
together by the trellis
fence. Past it: ferns the color of damp
moss lining the path, a crepe myrtle
molting, mourning, a lamppost
with a crown. On
the street beyond the wall
the buses exhale a deep
sigh as they arrive and
depart, nearly
empty. The springtime hum of the hornet
tree is today silent, its
tenants asleep beneath the snug
earth, hiding,
not from a calm but from the
restlessness. Not the eye of the
storm but its beating
heart, the revving
engine of gentle thunder purring,
trees rustling in anticipation drop
acorns thump against hard ground
like knocks on the head:
Plonk.
Plonk.
Plonk.
Wake up, wake up, they say, and
settle down—
The clouds are rolling into place.
