In the last days of August
black storm clouds,
gathering in the southern distance
the rounded humps and short horns
of stampeding bison,
they purple the slate blue
like an angry bruise.
buried in black, only moments ago,
leaps to earth
burning the coming dusk, white
under the lyrics of Hoyt Axton’s
“Flash of Fire”
as my Jeep hurtles south from Atoka,
through the storm.
This is war,
and summer should never surrender
never fold itself neatly into fall.
bring me this crashing thunder,
this rumbling herd of buffalo from days gone by
let lightning split the oak
hailstones pelt the ground
and rain paint the air black with rage and fury.
Let the sky howl
and darken with days
growing shorter and time winding down.