A flicking horde of bats dance down
the rumored storming firsts of spring
and willow tops in silhouette
sway like impatient giant arms,
a limbered orchestration tuned
attentive to this rogue release
of clapping thunder growling now
so anxiously beyond my view
As if awaking from a dream
the spiders whisper ever-clear
and yarn their death around the lips
of thunder heads and voiceless mists
that slink and ferry stories down
along the wind-shorn fields below
into the blessed dying town
where craters wait with missing words
The beasts will flee this place today,
pack their minds with all the bats,
and hoard their myths with all of us,
and never look back – never look back.