Posted in Poetry

A Throttling Back

I’m alone in my treehouse,
A studio above a garage,
Dawn still an hour or more away,
My mug of dark roast at my side.
Not having checked the weather,
I’m mildly surprised by tympani rolls
Out of the clouds toward the trauma center.
Then the swell of a late winter deluge.
After that, a throttling back,
An easing of the gully washer
Into a gentleness.
Then a modest percussion of
Sprinkles against the gutters.
And the ensemble at rest,
Only the arias of the waking birds
And the wail of an ambulance
Rolling toward the ER
Breaking the silence.

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