Moments before a storm, she wants more
and calls on him, when flat-land winds turns wild.
She will sit and wait, without complaint
when he returns with tempest aged whiskey.
It doesn't happen often, about every season
a check of the weather is well within reason and
well worth the wait of a short moccasin-walk
away from nosy people in the proper house.
In greasy darkness, she knows somewhere west is on fire
because she always smells smoke and rain, before desire.
She has lived, knowing each step of every traditional “rain” dance.
Drops drumming his tool-shed roof will cover moans of her thunder, until morning.