Tracking
Long after the wedge roped back
towards the sky
I know it is after me.
It came in close to my earth,
on the furrows of the field,
and upswept my debris.
Straight-line winds behind funnels…
Am I the farm?
Intact or rotating vertically sky-
ward?
And in that vortex of wind, hail,
rain
the track is lost.
The Doppler spins, highlighting
a red dot in a pink background.
I know I’m lost in the air.
Convergence birthing mud,
clay,
in violently rising air,
illumined by power bursts,
lightening torches…
the violence of hopes dying.
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