Waiting for the Storm

The wings anchor the redtail hawk to the sky

in an unstable atmosphere.

In a downward spiral, he swoops over the field.

The turkey vultures applaud from the roofline

of the white elevator. All waiting for the storm.

All we get is heavy air swooshing to the ground.

We wait.

As the earth waits.

The winter wheat sighs in the wind,  

rippling like a marimba dance

with no climax.

It dips, it sways, 

it ends at the field's edge.

Next field over—dead leaves and stalks

from the sorghum skitter 

across the road like rodents

trying to outrun the hawk.

I brake to watch them turn from mice to leaves,

at the bottom of the dry creek bed just outside of town.

The dirt road turns to pavement after the railroad tracks

where the grain bins are crumpled and falling in on themselves.

The storm broke its teeth on tin and left without a tear.