Bruno Rescigna
Wind, like most of the desert’s weather, comes in a fist.
It tortures trees and chases loose dirt.
Lightning flashes in the darkened sky before
a bark of thunder scares the black clouds into freeing
an ocean of water.
The silver wall of rain blinds drivers, who tack gently
in the wake of the vehicle ahead. Gushing water runs
through town like vandals, carrying anything not tied down.
Shoppers, marooned in doorways of stores and under the
theater’s
marquee, wait helplessly in the face of nature’s strength.
Sounds, like shards of metal hitting the ground, smother
conversations,
and just when it looks like the first line in my obituary
will be, “drowned in the desert,”
the storm loses interest and abruptly leaves, as if it
changed its mind.
The sky returns to an innocent blue, but the scrum of
garbage cans,
branches, and trash, evidence the force that barreled
through town.
The monsoon’s behavior may seem angry, but it’s just
nature’s way
of cleansing her palate.