Ah the hot-burst wind!
Snippy geists the brown carcasses dead upon the ground,
dance madly.
Crackle scatter claws.
Leaf zombie wars.
How dare they deny the hearts to whom She troves
a treasure in the chest ...
Science killed her but fell in love
with all that white outfit's best.
The storms approach.
She's stirring up the pot now --
mixing in the leaves,
to tiny tornadoes do I bow,
grace before She grieves.
Mother Nature's crackin' up.
It's coming. I feel it coming.
Outside forces checking in.
Or insides getting out.
Bolts of astral tendrils, oh,
such thunderous electricity!
To which News-show weather in a tie
even calls a moving cell.
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