Ghost Dance
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On Any Given Day - Red Springs, NC March 28, 1984 They often issue watches in the spring when turbulence is common in the air. Warnings are infrequent, but not rare, not so that one might warn of such a thing. For years each time has gone much as the last: some powerlines go down, a barn or two gives up the ghost of every storm it knew. The stars emerge again, the threat is past. So who's to know on any given day what anvil-headed madness in a cloud might scorch the dark horizon with a loud, infernal roar. And find you in its way! The claw of fury rakes across a land far from the land where fury's better known. With several variations on a cone, it savages whatever comes to hand. Trees that stood their ground time out of mind are twisted to the streets, so much debris. New homes and homes that stood a century are razed as one and blown away in kind. Stores and banks are gutted end to end, high voltage towers bent like sticks of gum. Woodsheds stand while brick and steel succumb, all through some vague anomaly of wind. What you could not expect, none can explain. Anatomies of funnel clouds give no reassurance to the town laid low and blasted all to pieces in the rain. This day will not be quietly left behind like others. Every night the windows shake you'll dream the wind can smash them all and wake up in a world not necessarily kind. (I rededicate this to the victims of stormheads everywhere.) Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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