A hawk circles and swoops before a red sky,
It’s black feathers cutting quick, frantic circles;
It can sense the world’s baited breath –
It knows a thunderstorm’s coming,
Can hear the wind picking up
Even before we feel it.
The golden clouds are ripped to shreds,
The leaves turn a strange, bright green,
Trembling in anticipation
For the deafening cadence of falling rain.
~ Ilana Reimer