If I am traveling in the rain toward
a distant black nexus on the underbelly
of a stormcloud, the lightning
always beats me there.
The lightning flashes again and again
reinflaming the swelling mass of black cloud-tissue
with radiating volts the color of plumflesh.
I watch, and walk.
A blue rain issues out of the cloud, suddenly,
released, a torrent, then ebbing
waxing, spattering down to a few drops.
Then a break of light, bright orange and warm
through the broken cloud and my point of destination
is wholly new, and horses thunder the ground around me
misting my goal with their sweat and smoke.
A hawk hangs in the air, just there.
All cloud is swept away and flowers open beneath
with bright mandarin petals, heavy with pollen.
The air is dried to the point of static.
A clarity of sense and sight of all creatures
And it stays overlong. Till the point of an over-repeated song,
and your eyes stray, yet
you stay on course.
You stay on the long way
through the transformation of the thing
you thought you knew by sight.
When along, perhaps, it was only
an abstract point
in the matrix of light.