When it was safe to write about the weather,
clouds were cumulus; the kind children see
as lambs and friendly dragons or trees
successful in their leafy reach for heaven.
Of the era between garden and flood,
much has been written. I curse the asp
and praise the whale that coughed old Jonah up;
as for the raven
I’ve forgiven. He did what ravens do. Smart bird
circled the Ark and returned, to partake
of the table’s feast rather than carrion.
Can’t say I blame him.
With need to know if waters had abated
a dove was sent. Doves don’t just fly for anywhere,
they head for home. unless home is
unsuitable for habitat;
It wasn’t long before the dove came back.
Flood waters don’t recede so easily.
The dove rose up again, circled and returned
with an olive branch clutched tight’,
showing Noah the land still wore its shame.
Tired and homeless the dove wove the branch
into a nest, then, tranquil, rested. It lingered there alone
apart from the paired population.
Would be nice to say that is the happy ending,
but you just can’t trust the weather anymore.
Floods and famine; civilization has reached
the point of saturation.
What hasn’t drowned is burning, the clouds
once pure with purpose clear now cede
to subdivisions, shades of former selves
with missions. (beware the cirrostratus)
With all the doppler, all the ‘acu weather’,
the storm still finds us unaware. It will take more
than an olive branch to set it right
but an olive branch is a good place to begin.