Dorothy and the First Tornado

Winter, 2014–2015 / No. 34

The sky was greening, foaming

like the top of a bubbling pot. And look,

there—see how the clouds climb down

to dance with us? How the animals

rush up to meet them, to conduct

the thrashing white sounds? But the clouds

want to circle on their own, thick rounds

across the fields far away, growing near.

Shingles, rakes, shovels through the air—so many things

learning to fly, or could they do this all along?

Come down from the sky, you silly cows.

Come back to the barn, blown open.