Thunder is not a god heard
in place of our need to burden clouds
The road opens where we are, we have
to open it. Off we go past cows
to seek company in an old sports bar.
The crazy Cajun comes up on screen;
makes him look believable now,
more like us than thunder when he says,
“Every fight is a story
that has yet to be played out.”
It’s hard to hear him; a guy complains
his neighbor’s kids are
“stealing the doggone fruit again.”
We don’t like to be reminded here
is also what’s out there.
The herders drift, the drifters swarm.
Out there climate’s a thing
that just happens to mess with the yield;
out there flailing bees
do not know what a wasp knows.
“I cannot train myself alone,” says Tim,
“the bag does not hit back.”
We can’t think of clouds, gods who
grumble when our burdens
lift our voices higher than they carry.
In praise of need we hear the children
(as though our own)
call their names out into the field.