Surf and Earth

The sky yielded blue on the altar of a cumulo-nimbus cloud
when white light crushed from the weight of a coming night,
but i am feasting on the cream of the crop,
broccoli in a cream sauce. Shrimp and potatoes and
steamed vegetables and cole slaw and scallops.
Wash it all down with the island's own Beach Bum Beer
and a cool refreshing letting go of loss.
The sky slowly separates the top striking a thick black line
as flat as a chocolate-chip pancake...
the bottom is just so much water and sand and
outdoor pool and polite plastic chairs...
the middle is a wide line of pale white
like a memory of moonlight.
Ozone and 'oh no's!' force the glass doors aside and scrape
the skin on the backs of arms and neck raising hairs.
Hard to tell if lightning is crashing yet
because plump tourists take breaks from pouring drinks
into themselves to flash cameras at each other--
be a shame not to be able to share these memories later
of strangers getting plumper and drunker.
Another flash fills the sky with wide eyes staring grey
blue back at the few of us paying attention to the storm...
in stark contrast to the ones just trying to stay warm.
And this cannot be mistaken for a mistake a camera
might make: this is the thin line of dawning and,
as if it is dawning on us, you know it's getting God's attention.
The rustling of the voluminous folds of the black robes
of thunder follow this searing sweeping fearless flashing
shaking the glass panes in their thick silver frames in then
out like the flexible surface of a bubble arcing outward
about to pop. And then even the sound of thunder itself
is drowned out by the shattering shower of rain coming down
like sparks from a fire that cause nothing but pain.
Still the water from above lashes the water below
crashing into the shore with swords and whips and sheets.
As the wide white line of what was left of an early evening
fades to gray
it is easy to forget the horrid humid heat of the slow summer day,
that seems like a year ago, or more.

8.6.2008