Drums of Thunder
Gray billows sweep the night as one shining eye peers through a parted lid of ebony.
A great raven soars across the moon, shadowing the glow with a formidable stain.
She rises, lifting her wings, as if preparing to plummet from her great abode, only to dissipate from black to gray.
God’s finger stirs the sky; yet brings no rain, only a sea of rolling mist.
All I see is the smoke from embers rising up from the earth’s majesty of green, and I weep for her loss.
I wonder, if somewhere upon a hill, the grandfather dances for rain. And, if I try, can I replicate the dance.
Can I dance? Can I dance with fervor!
Can my sad heart express the longing that I feel . . . to open the great sky wide enough to play his drums of thunder.