~ANNE C. BROMLEY~
On the mountain
as hard rain turns the street to river.
Car alarms warn: this will not be gentle,
go inside, get out your candles, watch the show.
The mountain slips behind a veil,
modest monument to the gods who live there,
who dance now in the villages to the north,
who brought this rain
that blesses the forest
as it floods the town, kills the lights.
Thunder drums a song
only the sunflowers hear
as they wave their thanks
to buffalo clouds racing to a bluer plain.
© by Anne C.