Right after the rope
snaked back to sky,
I know it is still chasing me.
Straight-line winds behind the funnel.
Rope, wedge-
makes no difference...
It comes....
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
uselessly,
eliminating the red dot
in the pink background.
The sirens are hushed.
I am in that convergence,
swept up
in dirt:
debris.
Violently rising,
spotlighted in power bursts.
Line snapping tracks,
the vehemence of hopes dying...
Damn I still think of you and wish you happiness. May it be so for you.
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