In the dead of night,
The howling, whistling wind heralds your coming
As trumpeters do for their king and queen.
Then you start to splatter and beat the dry ground,
Looking ancient with its deep cracks,
Looking like the heels of a slain giant,
Gathering weeds, wildflowers and whatnots.
Then thunder back up your merciless pounding,
And you both make mad music from the irate heaven,
Sounding like a thousand frenzied drummers.
Sounding like tribal wars across the plains.
In an hour, you spitter and spatter,
And leave the soaking earth in silence,
With grasses pitifully pinned to the ground,
And wet creepy crawlies safe and sound.
When the sun shines, I tread on soft ground
And stop to smell the wide-eyed wild roses,
Wondering why you punish them every night this summer.
Do you always come this way?