Lee Allen Hill
Porch rocker whispers—bring it, bring it. Saw-toothed wind sighs—patience, patience. Orphaned, lost litter leaves—jitter, flitter.
Barometric barrel dive. Sky scrims purple, curdled cotton. Looming low enough to inhale. Taste the ozone. Lungs flush full of ominous.
One, two, dollop drops splop on hot, soft asphalt—silvery skirmish scouts atomized, pavement perfumed. Olfactory prelude.
Crooked white-blue baton … slash, streak, sizzle-cymbal crash. One half-breath of still … ‘til tympanic tin-roof torrent. Translucent, milky shower curtain closes. Vertical veil brings down the sky. Trellised bougainvillea blusters, bows. Water oak fans, flounces, flourishes. Wild, wet, slapped applause from every leaf, every eave. Spouts gush praises.
Porch rocker races—more, more. Encore.
cicadas tune up