Summer Squall

A felonious aberration,
that soft pink sky turned red
with morning;
the innocent flowering
of dawn gave little warning.

A disingenuous incantation
that first faint rumble of thunder,
the distant streaks of lightning,
air gone stagnant  like the breath
of some malingering snake oil salesman

hovering, hulking,
lugubrious in the summer noon.
A dark’ing sky,
austere, bereft,
ensnares the atmosphere.

The warring gods attack,
obtuse and cruel they duke it out.
Beguiled by early morning’s smile
we hunker now, waiting
for the storm to end.




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