Again
The silver pyramids of rain beneath streetlights
Become mountain peaks, temples,
Weather of Old Legends.
The wind’s howl is the enraged mother wolf,
Whose jaws chew eyes into these rock faces
Caves for her starved pups.
Landslides are the fumblings of fighting giants
Losing footing in a changing world.
The rain’s rooftop drum
Is a shot bear’s growl
That paints a brown map of unfamiliar lands onto my ceiling.
Roads will be closed and
Overtime in record summer heat
Will be paid.
M. W. IRVING 