The Storm Over the Farm

the wind that day blew ice pellets
into horizontal streamers that stung the cheeks

gray low lying clouds sped over head
but in a direction opposite of the pellets

meadows hedge-rowed by thorn apple
silver beech maple oak cherry

there are always crows seen on these stormy
November afternoons they play quick

on spiraling eddies their feathers as quills
writing on the vellum sky

asters are the boldest wildflower
now left in resignation

sighing in the breeze
and the trail is matted

with wet leaves
in flattened shock of their

sudden fall to earth
the scant snow

huddled in their open palms
i walk hunched

driven against the wind
that howls in reciprocal force

i clench my fist
pull it from the warm undercoat

and thrust it at the invisible wind
“ is that all you got? ”

i would scream
and the ice pellets would strike my eyes

my existential rage pitiful
against what the sublime could offer