A fraction of sky falling in,
miles over my head. Unless
it’s coal in the stove downstairs
inching closer over the fire of itself,
settling down to be burnt.
It’s guns waking me up:
deep in the woods, minutely
thundering off at pigeons or rabbits.
Eight hours, ten hours, it must be,
perhaps twenty conscious thoughts,
since last night on TV
some expert said they could now
make lightning; not just likenesses
he showed us, but whatever it is
that signals frantically that thunder’s coming.
Sunday morning of course: so quiet
in between the explosions
you might hear the shot animal cry.
Simply count the seconds and say
how far off the explosion is.