Trough the Dark Foliage
The verdant Canopy is a green-black cloak.
Thunder roars and rolls as cannons on a battlefield,
Birds chant wildly deep from the wood,
Raindrops mark the bleached cement walk
With spatter the size of quarters.
A rat-tat-tat on the skylight informs
A steadier flow of precipitation.
Bits of sky, like stars, shine silver-gray
Through the dark foliage.
The rumbling rolling drums subside,
Distant; passing; moving eastward.
Another cell parading from he west now audible
Gains momentum, louder, replacing it's predecessor.
The sky dims.
Cadence of an aircraft circling the storm sounds overhead.
Booming reverberations resume.
Tree branches waggle, patiently,
In wait of a drink.
–Robert Pennington Price
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