How I dance to the fierce prep in summer storm.
The thud thud brimbles roof, percussion scorn --
dried leaves thrashed by invisible werewolves.
The trees, their hulky hula surely it will snap the whole horizon.
Gray on grayer layer we call black
rolls in the sky,
and what is wind but the earthly elementals,
huge and moving forces, ancient gods,
yet somehow still,
behind the eye not through it.
'Can I have this dance,' says the madly falling rain now, and so do I dispose the wind,
and step inside to dinner.