The first real thunderstorms of the season swept across the Midwest last night. While the worst of them seemed to part and flow to the north and south of my home town, others had tornadoes and floods.
This time of year, storms usually come in huge banks of black clouds that roll over the prairies in lines that stretch for miles. But in the summertime, they sometimes come singly, dark galleons floating in an ocean of sky.
Storms never surprise the prairie,
They build up on the horizon,
Great blackening hoards of cumulus
Like the gathering forces of evil
From some old Scandinavian folk tale.
Or they travel swiftly alone--
Silver, anvil-shaped giants
Floating over their own shadows,
Muttering to themselves deeply
And juggling lightning bolts,
Sometimes dropping one.