Squall

Winded plains,

grasses bent

under grey winds.

Cathedrals

of cumulus,

nimbus.

The like,

in tall spires,

horses thundering

over the mountains.

The swift feet

of heaven

over the lowlands

of America.

Preceding,

the gunpowder flashes

and smoky edged sky.

Preceding, 

the slash of 

rain kissing

the summer-packed dirt.

The monstrous clouded

pillars from the rage

of the longing seas,

off the Pacific the

soul roamed,

the great groveling

voice of Zeus.

Let go,

the earth cleaned

over, under the

symphonic tuning

of God-

the infinite percussion

of water on the earth.

[This is for Karl, because he asked nicely.]