Fourth of July
July 9 2009


There was a mad dash
when the rain hit,
coming down in sheets —
wind-driven, sharp bits
of hail.
Heavy drops
ricochet-off the hard-baked earth
like bee-bees shot by drunks.
The sky goes dark,
thunder rumbles imperiously.

We scoop up blankets, basket, little kids.
Paper dishes
spiral up like water spouts,
vortices
of plastic, napkins, cups.

The say the car
is the safest place in a storm —
wet bodies
crammed-in,
windows fogging-up.
The radio was marching bands
baseball, static.
We sat, time stopped
breathing-in the sweaty fetid air.

We felt it rock,
could almost imagine
being whisked off to Oz
in the hundred year tornado.
Lightning going-off
like flashbulbs at the ball park
on opening day,
its ghostly strobes
freeze-framing the world.

Later, we learned the county over
was hit hard —
houses vanished,
little shafts of straw
impaling trees.
We were lucky, I guess,
just a picnic wrecked.
But the fireworks
were free.