Morning Storm
5 am, lightning flashes,
A few drops dance with the dust.
Thunder rolls slow and heavy,
Grumbling through the sky.
I walk the dark, umbrella in hand,
The morning heat is still, watching,
The city holding its breath,
Waiting to see if the rain means it.
Austin’s summer storms are familiar now:
Rain that smells like dirt,
Thunder that won’t leave,
Lightning that tears at the dark.
I smile in the profound silence,
Between the slow, threatening growls.
In the dusty street, spots bloom,
Dust giving way to mud.
