Normally, I repose

in a quiet little valley

with a serpentine lane

along its sleepy stream.

Last night rain went monsoon,

sluiced down surrounding hills,

swamped the roadway.

The creek filled, overflowed,

roared its way to morning.

Deceptively peaceful,

dawn brought brightness,

world washed clarity.

In Robin-egg blue sky

winds gathered strength,

swept murderously in,

set unleafed trees

to the frenzied dance

of the drugged or deranged,

picked up the cadence

of night’s roiling creek.

The shriek of water and air

howled a devilish duet

with this haunted refrain:

“See what you’ve done to us.”

Bonnie Thurston