The Storm on “W”

Night time storms, hold the orange

Night time storms, hold the orange

The orange halo of the street lamp stands sentinel against the imposing shadows, ozone aromatizes the night.

The edges are fuzzy with skittering raindrops that become blurry with animated protests from jitterbugging leaves.

The paparazzi lightning flares vivid purple/white/lavender rapidly with undulating rolls of thunderous applause.

The gray asphalt steams refused moisture like a lover refusing to be lit afire with passion, darkened by gravity.

A gust of harsh wind bullies a weak branch with a vicious shove downward. Lightning showcases, thunder tattles.

The depression in the parking lot pools a pond where frogs take solace from the forest. They croak there.

The white noise lullaby on the tin roof begs to be only heard through drifts of deepening sleep which I can’t grant.

The wee hours tick-tock-tick-tock, the clock strikes 13, 4, 9, 11 but it doesn’t matter, I dream sleep away.

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