We have been forewarned,
and this morning await inches
of drought-quenching rain.
The weekend, they say,
will have little sunshine
as rivers and streams and fields
gulp down this manna from heaven.
The morning sky is sullen,
bruised with blotchy greys.
Traveling north and east,
the wind is spoiling for a fight
like a young man hopped up on beer
and cigarettes and the smiles of a sexy girl.
The spring trees sporting white and pink
blossoms, two, three, four weeks
ahead of season may be stripped
of their finery before day’s end.
The neighborhood cat who stops by each morning
for a quick breakfast has already come
and gone, his patchy grey and white coat
reflecting the sky above.
The air is damp with bone-aching coolness
as I sit near the window and look out,
heating pad alternating between knees and shoulder.
The sky grows dark, a rumble and growl
of thunder, until one, then two rain drops fall,
announcing the imminent arrival of the storm king.