Wow! There really wasn't a tornado or earthquake last night, and we didn't dream it. We were awakened by the sound of what could have been a military transport plane above our house, the ground rolling beneath our house, or an enormous thunder clap rattling the walls, but we were too tired to investigate.
This morning in front of our house, there is a slab of concrete that abutted the drain sewer, which has been flipped over and is in the street exposing a 4'x5' hole. So, a semi truck must have hit the curb and taken out the slab right at the entrance to our driveway.
It's still poetry month, so this poem, written after the New Year's Eve tornado, is for all the storm chasers out there.
Youthful Tornadic Energy
Linda O'Connell (c)
Wind whips, gusts howl, sirens shriek.
Thunderhead barrels up interstate,
swerves, drops down, streaks across prairies,
flattens flora and fauna, peels roofs like sunburned skin,
splinters treetops wishbone-fashion.
Strangles the river, relinguishes its bully grip, and scoots.
Reverberating trees and hearts still.
Night air thickens, blackness sizzles with electrified ions.
People search for their candles and wits, survey the damage,
contact loved ones.
My cell phone plinks a text received.
I read the message and gasp. My granddaughter
sends a just snapped image of the swirling
wide-mouthed monster bearing down,
chomping faster than her boyfriend can drive.
Her message, Isn’t ths a grt sht?
I climb the basement stairs
shake the wrinkles out of my wadded up nerves
pray, and think aloud, “I used to be young.”
I text, Silly ltl sht, gt home.